The flying ship descended slowly through thinning cloud, its hull humming as the mana engines eased their output. Snow drifted past the deck in lazy spirals, carried by a wind that never truly rested over Morgain lands. Below, the gardens of the Euclid estate came into view, wide, disciplined stretches of white broken by dark stone paths and trimmed hedges now buried beneath frost.
The ship touched down with a muted thud, metal meeting ground. Steam hissed briefly along the landing struts before fading into the cold air.
Trafalgar stepped forward to the railing, eyes already scanning the garden out of habit rather than excitement. And then he saw them.
Arthur stood at the front, straight-backed despite the cold, hands folded behind him in formal readiness. Around him waited the familiar silhouettes of the mansion's maids, cloaks drawn tight, the elven maid unmistakable even beneath layers of winter fabric. All of that registered in an instant.
And then his gaze stopped.
