The Great Hall's shattered sideboard had been cleared away before midnight, but the stone floor still bore the gray, pulverized scars where Brutus's iron-shod hooves had ground into the granite.
By the second afternoon of the seventy-two-hour countdown, Starfell Manor looked less like a noble house in mourning and more like a forward supply depot on the eve of a continental campaign.
Laurence stood on the second-floor gallery, leaning over the carved balustrade with a cup of spiced cider cooling in his hand.
Below him, the cavernous entrance hall bustled with rhythmic, purposeful industry.
The worn, faded carpets had been rolled up and carted out. In their place, heavy worktables had been dragged from the kitchens, covered in stacks of vellum manifests, trade ledgers, and crates of fresh, gleaming equipment bearing the logistical seals of the Bale barony.
Beside him, Victoria stood with a ledger tucked under one arm.
