The morning mist clung low to the emerald canopy of the southern river valley, burning off slowly as golden shafts of autumn sunlight pierced the crisp mountain air. From the high limestone battlements of the citadel, the view stretched endlessly across a landscape finally free of smoke, marching infantry columns, and the tense, suffocating dread of impending war.
There were one hundred and forty-seven chapters remaining in the chronicle of our restoration—one hundred and forty-seven foundational stones of peace, education, and judicial reform waiting to be laid across the continent. But today, the grand marble assembly hall remained silent, its heavy mahogany doors barred to foreign ministers and trade delegates.
I stood at the edge of the citadel’s outer stone terrace, wearing a light
