The cold morning wind slipped through the high windows of the castle's main hall. The black curtains, usually still, fluttered gently, creating a soft rustling that blended with the footsteps of the undead servants who passed silently through the corridors. The castle had been fully restored since its reconstruction, yet there was something in the morning air that felt different heavier, more tense, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
On the northern balcony, Sylvia stood in a dark gray house robe. Her silver hair was tied loosely, and a steaming cup of tea rested in her hand. She gazed far into the north, toward the fog that slowly dissipated after the long night that had passed over Nocture.
