Riezekiel returned to the Mors Dukedom under a veil of silence. The streets were still, and the air was cold, draped in a solemn mist that lingered even after the sun had risen. He didn't speak to the guards who greeted him at the gates, offered a nod, and passed through.
His cloak billowed behind him, heavy with the scent of forest and metal. The gala, the Academy, and Ahcehera all felt like a different world now. A world that no longer recognized him. He walked through the halls of the Mors estate, halls that had once echoed with the laughter of his kin, halls that now carried only the sound of his boots and distant memories.
The staff had already prepared his chambers, lit, armor polished, and documents stacked neatly on the long table near the window. But Riezekiel ignored them. He went straight to the strategy room where the old crest of House Mors hung, its silver threads frayed by time but still proud.
