A stunned, breathless gasp rippled through the ruined merchant district.
The terrified civilians of Einjaar, who had been cowering in the ash just moments before, stared at the woman on the black stallion. Through the soot and the lingering haze of blood, they recognized the sharp, unyielding silhouette, the expertly crafted bow, and the crest of their city still subtly woven into her travel gear.
"Lady Dara..." an old woman whispered, clutching her hands to her chest as tears cut clean lines through the dirt on her face.
"It's Dara," the grizzled militiaman echoed, his voice cracking with a sudden, desperate surge of emotion. He staggered to his feet, leaning heavily against a broken wall.
Atop his armored warhorse, the King of Belrath did not look at Dara. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the dirt.
