The next day
Inside the main walls, Enzo and the rest slowly made their way out into the open courtyard. The stone beneath their boots was cold, still holding onto the night's breath, as if dawn itself was hesitant to settle here.
Ahead of them stood the castle steward. His back was straight, his posture relaxed to the point of arrogance, rough gray hair barely shifting despite the wind weaving through the open space.
"Tyrant," Enzo muttered under his breath, his eyes lingering on the man longer than necessary.
In this era, age meant almost nothing. Once someone reached complete maturity, time loosened its grip.
Wrinkles faded, flesh hardened, and the body slowed its decay unless one was truly ancient or carried a dangerously low amount of registered time.
Whether the steward was thirty years old or two hundred, Enzo could not tell.
Power, however, was unmistakable.
"That's…" Zeke frowned, his casual expression tightening as his gaze slid to the side.
