The city streets buzzed with cautious energy. While the rebellion had been crushed and Vale imprisoned, the wounds left behind were raw and deep. Merchants set up their stalls with wary glances, children played with less abandon, and whispers of uncertainty traveled faster than the news of Vale's defeat. Winter's Crown was a city in recovery, but recovery would take time—and leadership.
Damien walked through the market square, his steel-gray eyes scanning the bustling crowd. He was dressed simply, his usual armor replaced by a dark cloak and plain tunic. Today was not about command but about presence. He wanted the people to see him not as a weapon of the crown but as a man willing to walk among them.
Beside him, Amara kept her sharp blue eyes on the crowd, her daggers hidden but always within reach. "You sure about this?" she asked, her voice low.
"I need to be," Damien replied.
"And if this goes sideways?"
