The first thing I noticed about the manor was the wind—dry, salty, and relentless. It carried the scent of the Southern Sea, but no comfort came with it. The land stretched before me, an endless expanse of sand and rock, barren and lifeless.
This was not a home. This was a cage—one I had been ordered into.
The manor itself was grand, built of pale stone, its towers standing against the sky like sentinels watching the wasteland. From the highest balcony, I could see the rolling waves beyond the cliffs, a constant reminder of how far I had been pushed away from the battlefield.
This land, this place, was meant to be my exile.
But there were people here—villagers who had lived on the outskirts of this desolation long before it belonged to me. They bowed when I passed, eyes filled with both reverence and quiet uncertainty. They saw me as a hero, a warrior, a Queen of War. But what use was a warrior in a land without battle?