The estate of House Drake felt colder despite the rising sun. In the secluded chamber reserved for the family's highest elders, the flicker of candles cast long shadows across walls adorned with ancestral banners and the fading portraits of warriors long passed.
Ancient weapons hung in places of honor—swords that had carved the family's destiny from blood and ambition, axes that had cleaved through enemies in forgotten wars.
It was a rare moment of privacy, but the weight of history and politics pressed heavy upon the room like a shroud of unspoken oaths.
Elder Varian Drake stood near the window, fingers lightly tapping the thick pane of frosted glass. The rhythm was unconscious, a nervous habit he'd developed during decades of political maneuvering.
Despite the warmth inside, maintained by carefully placed braziers and thick tapestries, a chill clung to his bones—one born not of weather, but of the unease that had been growing since the Northwind delegation's arrival.
