The night slipped away from Trafalgar without him truly noticing when it ended.
Morning arrived quietly at first, then all at once, carried by the growing noise outside the window — hurried footsteps on stone, distant voices calling instructions, metal shifting, carts rolling, the sound of a city preparing itself for something it could no longer avoid. The world was already moving toward war, while the small room around him remained suspended in a calm that felt almost unreal.
Trafalgar stood beside the bed, already dressed.
His posture was straight, his expression serious, his eyes fixed on Aubrelle.
Trafalgar stood beside the bed, already dressed. His eyes fixed on Aubrelle.
