Inside the manor's reception hall, the atmosphere was completely different from usual.
Behind the mahogany table, Baron Fosling's usual calm expression was gone, replaced by Dalko's deeply furrowed brow.
The faint sounds of battle from the manor's main gate drifted in through the window, mixed with the clamor of servants rushing to put out fires. These noises were like invisible hammers, pounding against the young noble's taut nerves.
Finally, Dalko shot to his feet.
The flickering flames of the candelabra cast his anxious silhouette onto the oak floor, twisting and distorting as he paced back and forth.
On his third pass by the fireplace, he stopped abruptly, grabbed his sword, and strode toward the door.
"Master Dalko!"
Just as he pushed open the oak door, a firm, elderly voice stopped him in his tracks.
The old butler, Char, though his hair was silver, stood as straight and tall as the century-old pine in the courtyard.
