[Rynthall Estate—Three Years Later]
Three years had passed since the Grand Duke silas had ridden out beneath the banners of Rynthall to the north. Three long years since the clash of steel and the echo of war drums had carried him away, and still everything remained silent.
No letters came. No messengers crossed the borders. Only rumors drifted down from the frozen mountains—of victories, of stalemates, of blood spilled on snow.
Some whispered that Silas of Rynthall had fallen; others claimed he was carving a new legend on the battlefield. But the truth remained locked behind the veil of the warfront, and the waiting grew heavier with every season.
The empire shifted uneasily. Nobles murmured in corridors about succession. Merchants fretted over caravans. Even the servants of Rynthall estate, who had once carried themselves with unshaken pride, now whispered behind closed doors: Would their lord ever return?
Yet within the walls of the estate, life refused to stand still.
***
