[Rynthall Estate—Later—The war Preparation]
The carriage wheels had barely stilled before Silas stepped down, boots meeting the stone with a dull thud. The courtyard of the Rynthall estate was alive with urgency—knights hoisting crates of dried meat, barrels of grain being rolled toward waiting wagons, and blacksmiths hauling bundles of freshly forged weapons. The metallic tang of steel mixed with the scent of oiled leather and dust.
Silas's gaze swept over his men, their movements sharp and precise, but his eyes inevitably sought one figure inside the open hall.
Lucien.
He stood near the grand staircase, Elysia perched securely in one arm. The little girl clung to his tunic, her tiny fingers gripping as though she sensed the weight of the day. With his free hand, Lucein pointed to a chest being filled.
"Not that one," his voice rang firm over the bustle. "Replace the blankets with oilskin. If the rains start early in the north, damp bedding will be useless."
