Four days had passed since the Rithvale letter arrived.
And the estate had settled into what could generously be called calm. The servants went about their duties with practiced efficiency, the grounds maintained their immaculate appearance, and the daily rhythm of noble life continued its predictable dance.
But underneath the surface, tension coiled like a spring wound too tight.
"Haa... Haa..."
Alaric stood in the training yard, sweat already beading despite the morning chill.
The sun had barely cleared the horizon, painting everything in shades of gray and gold.
"Your stance is wrong."
A voice cut through his concentration.
He clicked his tongue as a beautiful woman circled him like a hawk, green eyes catching every imperfection.
When did she become a weapons master?
"My stance is fine." He said, adjusting his grip on the practice sword anyway.
How did it come to this?
He thought inwardly.
