Lord Rowe staggered through the archway of his mansion's grand courtyard, his heavy boots crunching against the gravel.
His eyes, usually sharp and commanding, were clouded with exhaustion and grief.
At the center of the courtyard, illuminated by the pale light of dusk, stood a black carriage bearing the crest of the Investigation Authority.
Before it, resting solemnly on an iron stand, was a coffin.
His steps slowed. His throat closed. The world seemed to narrow until all he could see was that dark lid.
If there was one thing he was known for, it was his iron will. The ability to stand before grave odds and not waver a tiny bit. But right now... his hand trembled as he reached for the coffin. He lifted it open.
Inside lay his precious daughter.
She looked as if she were merely sleeping, dressed in a gown of white silk embroidered with gold, her hair neatly arranged across her shoulders.
