The trumpets rang at dawn.

  Three long notes—triumphant, earth-shaking—rolled across the city like thunder. The outer gates swung wide, and the avenue beyond exploded with sound.

  "The Hero of the East has arrived!"

  Thousands pressed against the barriers. Merchants waved hats. Children sat on shoulders, eyes wide with wonder. Young women clutched flowers to their chests. Old soldiers stood at attention, eyes bright with unshed tears.

  Petals rained from every balcony—white, gold, crimson—turning the cobblestones into living color. Banners snapped in the autumn wind, sapphire and gold flashing in the morning sun.

  At the head of the procession rode a figure from legend.

  Sir Alec Veyron sat astride a massive black warhorse that moved like liquid shadow.

  Dark hair fell slightly across his forehead. His face was all sharp lines: a strong jaw, straight nose, and high cheekbones that made him look carved from marble rather than born.

  And his eyes.

  Golden. Like morning sun through amber. They swept over the crowd with a soldier's awareness, seeing everything, revealing nothing.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  The crowd's roar swelled to a fever pitch.

  "He's more handsome than the ballads say!"

  "Bless him! He ended the war!"

  "ALEC! ALEC! ALEC!"

  The corner of his mouth lifted.

  The cheering intensified.

  Estelle watched from an upper balcony, half-hidden behind stone.

  She'd chosen this spot deliberately. High enough to see. Far enough to stay invisible.

  Below, the Hero rode closer. His horse stepped steady through the carpet of petals. The crowd's adoration washed over him, and he accepted it with that same minimal acknowledgment—head slightly bowed, barely there smile.

  His gaze swept the balconies as he passed.

  Then it happened.

  Their eyes met.

  Just for a second. But in that split moment, Estelle felt the air leave her lungs.

  Golden eyes—sharp and assessing—fixed on her across the impossible distance. The way a predator's gaze lands on movement in the brush.

  His expression didn't change. The faint smile stayed in place.

  But something flickered in those golden eyes. Recognition? Curiosity?

  Or nothing at all?

  Then his attention moved on, toward the palace gates, smooth as breathing.

  Was he looking at me? No. impossible

  But her hands had gone white-knuckled on the railing.

  She was too far away. One face among hundreds. He couldn't have even made out her features from that distance.

  But her pulse wouldn't slow.

  Down below, the gates opened wider.

  Sir Alec Veyron entered the palace courtyard.

  The crowd screamed their love.

  He smiled for them—distant, controlled, perfect.

  But for the briefest moment, as he passed beneath the balconies, his golden eyes had flickered upward.

  And found pink hair catching the morning light.

  End Chapter 5