The pale light of dawn crept through the narrow window, painting the stone walls in muted gray. Trafalgar stirred, sitting up on the stiff bed, the air colder than ice even inside the fortress. He rubbed his face with both hands before swinging his legs to the floor.
His black clothes were already laid out—a tunic, trousers, gloves, all trimmed with somber detail. Morgain custom demanded mourning attire, and for once, he didn't argue. He dressed quickly, the chill biting at his skin until the fabric settled around him.
Pulling on his boots, he paused for a moment, staring at the faint glimmer of the stars still visible through the window. The fortress was silent. No chatter, no heavy steps, only the occasional creak of wood or whisper of wind. Everyone was awake, but no one dared raise their voice today.
Trafalgar tugged the cloak tighter over his shoulders and stood, exhaling a cloud of white breath. 'Let's just hope the day goes by quickly.'
