Word of the ridge reached Ashenveil before Aria's column did, carried by the speed with which good stories always traveled faster than the people who lived them, passed from scout to gatekeeper to kitchen maid until by the time the queen actually rode through the gates, half the kingdom already knew, in rough outline, what had happened on that ridge at midmorning.
By the time she dismounted in the courtyard, a crowd had gathered, and the cheer that rose at the sight of her was different from the celebration after the wedding. Quieter. Steadier. The particular respect a kingdom gives a ruler who has just proven, in the clearest possible terms, that peace had not made her soft, that the woman who had married their king in white silk a week before was the same woman who had stood unflinching
