The entourage of the Princess arrived at the outskirts of Nevan, a windswept trading town nestled beneath sharp cliff walls and flanked by golden plains.
The air held a biting chill, and the sky was draped in soft grey clouds, diffusing the light over the cobbled paths and old stone ruins scattered nearby—a place that held more history than life now.
A ruined watchtower stood half-collapsed beside the main road, its broken arches creating a natural canopy overhead. It was here that the Princess halted the group. The old stone floor beneath their boots was etched with time, and the wind carried a quiet whisper of bygone battles and secrets.
Martina stepped forward with a commanding air, her silver armor subtly veiled under a heavy cloak of navy and gold. Her greenish eyes scanned the gathered group—knights, attendants, guards, and scouts, all with upright backs and lowered heads.
