Derek gazed at the horizon, trying to catch a glimpse of the capital's great castle, but he saw only a blur—it was far too distant for his eyes to make out. Snow White pressed a hand to her chest, anxious and terrified that the people she loved might have been injured—or worse. Grimilde noticed this; she clasped Snow White's hand, stroking the back of it with her thumb, hoping to help her calm down.
The journey was once again silent and filled with dark thoughts, until they finally reached the outskirts of the capital. The wooden bridge leading to the great gates was largely intact, and many soldiers were busy repairing the road and reinforcing its foundations. Unfortunately, the destruction the capital had suffered was visible even from that distance: rubble littered the streets; people, covered in grime, were frantically clearing away debris that blocked the path; and the wounded sat by the roadside, waiting for aid. Many guards were occupied with rescuing those trapped beneath the ruins and searching for survivors. In the distance, the royal castle loomed, one of its towers collapsed and shattered by the earthquake. The situation looked grim.
At the capital's entrance, they were stopped by armed guards; this encounter made it possible to restore order among the anxious soldiers.
"Halt! Identify yourselves!"
"Your queen awaits to cross the threshold of her capital." Derek and Mark dismounted, approaching the guards with their horses' reins in hand, while Iza brought the wagon to a stop. It was then that the princess stepped down from the wagon, followed by William and Scarlet, while Adelina remained with Grimilde.
"Your Highness!" The soldiers present hastened to bow, ready to serve her. Their hearts swelled with hope and pride; they had been deeply worried about the royal family.
"You are safe!"
The young woman thanked them for their hard work, then looked around with a concerned expression: "What is the situation?"
"We are still clearing the streets of rubble, Your Highness. We do not know exactly how many have been injured or killed by the earthquake." The captain of the guard—a man with a thick, dark beard and eyes made wise by age—bowed slightly and answered his princess, his face heavy with the weight of the tragedy. The princess nodded, feeling the crushing weight on her chest grow with every passing second. "I understand... we must reach the castle to deal with the situation."
"Certainly. We will ensure the streets are clear for your passage." The captain gathered five mounted soldiers and ten on foot to accompany and protect the wagon alongside him.
"Let us move on," the princess declared, turning to her group. Grimilde waited for her in the wagon, her expression unreadable; she longed to see with her own eyes the state of the capital, but venturing out was risky, especially given her injury. Above all, she did not wish to appear weak before her citizens. It was vital to project strength and stability—to instill hope and restore order—even though the earthquake had shattered it all. The carriage moved slowly through the capital's streets, and the citizens immediately realized it was the royal family returning from their long diplomatic journey. Upon seeing the soldiers, they moved to the sides of the main street, their expressions a mix of fear and anxiety. Devastation had claimed the lives of some of their loved ones, destroyed homes and shops, and thrown the streets into chaos.
The tragedy had struck suddenly, and many of those present had not yet come to terms with what had happened. The initial moments of the earthquake had stopped the citizens' hearts; they were terrified by a phenomenon they did not understand. As houses began to shake and collapse, people fled screaming, trying to reach their loved ones and find a safe place to take shelter, yet for many, escaping the crumbling buildings proved impossible.
In that moment, the citizens' silence was a sign of utter exhaustion—both emotional and physical. That quiet weighed more heavily than the sound of desperate weeping. It filled Grimilde and Snow White's minds with images of the people they cared about—caught in the earthquake, injured, and afraid. Mariella, Rachel, the dwarves, Federik... what had become of them?
Upon reaching the city's main square—located at the start of the broad avenue leading to the royal palace gates—the crowd grew denser. The carriage came to an abrupt halt, and soldiers raised their spears toward the stranger blocking their path. The man was a civilian, caked in dust and blood; his eyes were pitch-black—reddened, likely from weeping—and burned with a fire ready to set everything ablaze. The crowd began to grow restless, shoving and pushing as they tried to move toward the armed group to demand explanations or seek help. Some began to scream, while others grew agitated, frightened by the confusion. The din made it impossible for the soldiers to issue orders ensuring the citizens kept their distance from the carriage.
"It's them." His deep voice rang out powerfully across the square, reaching the ears of those hidden inside the carriage. His fists were clenched, his eyes wild, and his face flushed and slick with sweat from rage.
"Move aside—that's an order." A soldier stepped forward to grab him, but another man threw himself between them, halting the soldier's advance. The citizen still wore his wedding band, twisting and squeezing it so hard he was breaking the skin. He had lost his wife to the earthquake, along with the home they had built together. He was bitter, consumed by deep sorrow but even more so by rage—a blind fury that drove him to seek something, or rather someone, to blame. His lips trembled, as did his hands; his body was taut, like a bowstring drawn and ready to loose a first, lethal arrow at the enemy.
"Where was the royal family when we truly needed them?" he shouted in anger, his voice hoarse from the weeping that had plagued him all day. Another soldier moved to push them back, looking irritated. "I said—"
"...move! Didn't you hear the orders?" He felt terrible about it, but this was no time to give in to empathy; his duty was to ensure the safety of the royal family.
"What do you intend to do? Arrest me for speaking the truth?!"
The captain of the guard dismounted, his expression tense; his heart began to race. He surveyed the agitated crowd—the wary eyes and desperate faces—knowing it would take only a spark to ignite a blaze.
"You must clear the road," he stated sternly, his gaze sharpening as his hand moved to the hilt of the sword at his side.
"Where were you? The people we love are dead! Our homes destroyed! What are we supposed to do now?" The man clutched his chest, bunching his shirt in his fist, gritting his teeth against the rage and the grief that threatened to consume him from within. His voice cracked, and his red, dry eyes fixed on the carriage. "This is a punishment sent from the heavens!"
A soldier lunged forward and grabbed him by the collar, trying to yank him aside, but the man resisted, aided by his brother who had stepped in to help. He kept shouting until he was breathless.
"The kingdom was at peace before our king died! Our widowed queen is nothing but a foreigner who snatched the throne! That woman is no queen—she is a curse!"