The teleportation light faded, and Trafalgar's boots landed on cold stone.
They were back.
The floating island, the council, the Elders, the political tension thick enough to choke on—gone.
Instead, the familiar weight of Morgain Castle settled over him like an old, unwelcome cloak: towering obsidian walls, drifting snow outside the windows, corridors carved into the mountain itself.
But today, the atmosphere was different.
No chatter.
No mocking laughter.
No casual threats tossed between siblings.
Only movement—efficient, sharp, purposeful.
As soon as Valttair stepped off the platform, the Morgains snapped into action.
Lady Seraphine issued orders to the servants with a clipped voice, already preparing communications to imperial allies.
Lady Verena barked for reports from the Morgain military divisions.
Lady Naevia gathered healers.
Lady Ysolde whispered something urgent to Darion and Elira.
The heirs moved just as quickly:
