Inside the carriage sits an older man, his posture rigid and his expression painted with fear. There's something vaguely familiar about him—his features bear a striking resemblance to Noelle's, though time and hardship have carved lines into his face. His green eyes dart around the space nervously, his dark raven hair cropped short but unkempt. His attire is disheveled, as if he's been through an ordeal that left him shaken and stripped of his dignity.
The moment his eyes land on me, he flinches, his gaze sharp and wary like a cornered animal. I step into the carriage, closing the door behind me, the small space amplifying the tension between us.
"Good afternoon, Your Majesty," I say, my tone calm but edged with a cool authority.
