Spring met them halfway south.
Snow thinned.
Mud replaced ice.
The road smelled of rain and decay.
War's leftovers.
Aren rode in silence.
Grief rode beside him.
So did caution.
Greyhaven was no longer home.
It was a battlefield without swords.
They passed burned villages.
Empty farms.
Mass graves.
Draven raids had reached deeper than reports claimed.
Rowan had hidden much.
Or lost control.
At the capital gates, trumpets sounded.
Too loud.
Too eager.
A performance.
Rowan awaited in the courtyard.
Thinner.
Paler.
Older.
Though barely a year had passed.
"Aren," he said, opening his arms.
Aren accepted the embrace.
Politely.
Carefully.
"Varyn confessed," Rowan said at once.
"Before or after torture?" Aren asked.
Rowan flinched.
"Before," he lied.
Court gathered.
Eyes followed.
Whispers bloomed.
The hero returns.
The rival returns.
The threat returns.
That night, Rowan hosted a feast.
Music.
Meat.
Wine.
Illusions of peace.
Aren sat near the throne.
Close enough to be seen.
Far enough to be watched.
Edric approached quietly.
"You were right," he said. "Varyn named others."
"Names?" Aren asked.
Edric hesitated.
"Some will surprise you."
Lysa leaned close.
"Guards doubled around you."
"I noticed."
"Not for protection," she added.
Aren smiled faintly.
"I noticed that too."
In his old chambers, Aren found new locks.
New servants.
New listeners.
He stood at the window.
City lights flickering below.
He had returned as a hero.
But heroes in palaces…
Rarely lived long.