The road leading to the Draxell estate was silent, save for the steady march of armored boots and the soft clatter of hooves. Torches lit the way, casting warm halos upon the cobbled path. Before long, the towering silhouette of the mansion came into view vast and commanding, its stone walls bright even under the pale wash of the moon. At its entrance bloomed gardens of lilies, roses, and marigolds, each carefully tended, their fragrance carried by the night wind. The flowers, arranged with deliberate care, were no mere decoration they were a devotion, nurtured in honor of the lady of the house.
As the great iron gates creaked open, servants already stood in neat lines along the entrance path. When the General set foot on the steps, clad still in the dark uniform adorned with gleaming medals, every head bowed deeply. His presence was a mixture of awe and duty, the mark of the youngest general who bore both battlefield scars and the name of a house revered through centuries of war.
