The first snow had not yet fallen, but winter had already made its intentions known.
Bruno stood at the tall windows of his study, hands folded behind his back, watching the gardens below settle into their late autumn stillness.
The leaves had long since fallen from the old oaks, raked into careful piles by the groundskeepers before being carted away. What remained was structure; paths, hedges, stonework; revealed now that ornament had been stripped away.
It was a season he understood well.
Behind him, the room was alive with quiet motion. A fire burned low in the hearth. Trunks had been brought in and arranged with careful precision along the far wall, their brass fittings gleaming softly in the lamplight. A valet moved in practiced silence, folding garments with reverence rather than haste.
Bruno turned from the window and surveyed the scene.
"I still find it amusing," he said at last, "that preparing for peace requires more logistics than preparing for war ever did."
