The group of paladins, priests, and mercenaries walked down the slopes of the high mountains of Solania. From a distance, it should have looked triumphant, a holy expedition returning beneath banners of gold and white.
But up close, the illusion fell apart. Armor hung dented and split, priestly robes were stained with blood and mud, and the mercenaries at the rear dragged their feet like men who had forgotten what a proper road felt like.
The procession descending into Solania looked less like a triumphant return and more like survivors limping home from an unwinnable war.
His armor had been polished before entering the city, the scratches buffed away, the blood cleaned from the gilded edges until he gleamed beneath the afternoon sun. A golden tiara rested above his brow like an unnecessary reminder of status, and his posture radiated the kind of confidence only someone untouched by consequence could possess.
