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Sunlight spilled gently into the carriage, painting warm gold across the embroidered seats. The desert winds were still distant; for now, crisp mountain air mingled with the faint scent of winter herbs.

Duke Aren Veyrhold sat by the window, gazing at the horizon where snow met sand. His face—usually a stone mask of nobility—held something rare:

Warmth, softness, a father’s quiet happiness.

Not a smile... But something deeper.

Aelira watched him from ...

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