Chapter 12 - The March to the Western Duchy
Three days later, an elite regiment of royal cavalry bearing the unified crest of both kingdoms thundered down the western trade road. At the head of the column rode King Rhys, Princess Amara, and, mounted on a sleek black mare provided from the royal stables, Sera Rowe.
The transition from a condemned prisoner to an armed emissary had been swift, but Sera felt completely at home in the saddle. The wind whipping against her face felt like freedom.
As the carriage wheels rattled across the border bridge into the Western Duchy, the picturesque vineyards gave way to the sprawling, opulent estate of Duke Carrow. The massive wrought-iron gates bore the duke’s crest—a predatory hawk clutching a bloody dagger.
The guards at the gate moved to block the procession, but when Rhys drew his broadsword just an inch from its scabbard, the heavy gates swung open with panicked haste.
The carriage rolled into the central courtyard, startling dozens of servants who scurried out of the way like mice. Duke Carrow himself appeared on the grand marble steps of his manor, dressed in sumptuous silks, a cup of spiced wine in his hand, looking thoroughly annoyed by the unexpected intrusion.
“What is the meaning of this?” Carrow bellowed, his face flushing red as he descended the stairs. “By what right do foreign soldiers march uninvited onto private noble grounds?”
Sera dismounted smoothly from her mare, her boots hitting the cobblestones with a decisive thud. She didn’t wait for Rhys or Amara. She walked straight toward the flustered duke, her hand resting casually on the hilt of the dagger tucked into her belt.
May you like
Carrow stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes bulging as he stared at the woman he had sent to the gallows.
“You...” Carrow choked out, the wine cup slipping from his fingers and shattering against the marble. “You’re supposed to be dead.”
