Trafalgar was alone in his room within Morgain Castle.
The silence there was not accidental. It was deliberate in its restraint, built into the stone and spacing, into the way the walls neither pressed in nor offered comfort. Valttair would return today. The conversation with the head of the Sylvanel family had concluded, and with his return the uncertainty would end. Today, it would be known what decision had been made. Today, it would be known when they would go to war.
War was approaching. Not as a rumor or a distant possibility, but as an inevitability already in motion. The world would descend into chaos soon enough—territories shifting, bloodlines tested, structures breaking under pressure. Trafalgar acknowledged it without tension, without anticipation. He did not feel fear at the thought. If anything, there was only a quiet awareness, steady and unmoving, as if the future had already aligned itself and was simply waiting to arrive.
