Caldren was fifty-two years old, and he looked it honestly.
He was not decayed, not reduced, just the appearance of a man who had been spending himself on something large for a long time and accepted the rate of exchange.
Silver sat at his temples. His movement was the controlled economy of someone who had long understood that how you occupy space is communication.
Alistair took his measure while he walked.
The Duke didn't look like a villain.
He looked like someone's father, and a Duke, and a man who had been right about enough things that being wrong about something this significant was genuinely surprising to him.
Caldren stood at Sun Harvest's territory edge with Viridius on his right and Valve on his left. Three soldiers stood behind them, at attention, the quiet discipline of people chosen for this specifically.
No banners, no display of force.
That alone unsettled Alistair more than a formal column would have.
