Night had begun to fall over Everfrost.
The heavy rain from earlier that afternoon had long since faded, leaving behind a damp and quiet stillness. The scent of wet stone and earth mingled with a soft mist that drifted through the window crevices, lending the castle a vaguely cold, almost spectral atmosphere.
The wind whispered through the distant watchtowers, as if it only wished to speak to the darkness itself.
In the study, the fireplace still crackled warmly, its golden light reflecting off the dark-stained wood panels and casting long shadows into the corners of the room.
Dorian sat at the desk, reviewing the contents and notes that Fealan had carefully prepared.
Standing opposite him, hands folded neatly behind his back, was Rowan. His voice held a hint of rasp as he spoke.
"Her Majesty's gift has truly raised morale among the troops," he said, his tone calm but laced with a certain relief.
