The White Army had finally returned to the city not as mere men, but as living legends.
Through every crooked alley and bustling market square, soldiers of the royal host strutted like peacocks, armor half-unbuckled, cloaks thrown over shoulders with careless pride. Taverns overflowed with drunken laughter and the clatter of mugs, each establishment vying to host as many veterans as its walls could hold.
Drinks were pushed into calloused hands with cheers; tankards of ale foamed over in wild toasts to the prince, to the White Army, to victory, and sometimes just to whoever could shout the loudest.
Whorehouses hastily nailed new signs to their doors — "Victory Discount!" — and opened their arms and legs alike to those who had marched for the prince. Soldiers found themselves beloved like long-lost brothers and prized like heroes of old tales, with offers of wine, women, and coin flowing with reckless abandon.
