Trafalgar sat alone in his office, the silence broken only by the faint crackle of the mana lamp and the muted hush of snowfall beyond the window. Thick flakes drifted down in slow spirals, piling quietly against the glass. The world outside was cold and still, locked beneath winter's grip, while inside the room warmth lingered.
He held a cup in his hand, fingers wrapped around the porcelain. When he lifted it, steam curled upward in lazy threads, vanishing just as quickly as it formed. He took a slow sip, letting the heat settle in his chest, his gaze never leaving the falling snow.
For a brief moment, there was peace.
Then came the knock.
Tok. Tok. Tok.
"Come in," Trafalgar said.
The door opened, and Arthur stepped inside, closing it carefully behind him. He stood straight, as always, posture disciplined, eyes sharp despite the late hour.
"The guest is fine," Arthur reported immediately. "I saw Lady Mayla go to greet her."
