Julian stepped down from the wagon with stiff legs, every muscle in his body reminding him of the bruises he hadn't yet earned the luxury to treat.
A few senior servants approached, whispering hushed instructions as they began unloading supplies and triaging the wounded. No one greeted him. No one needed to. He was expected to fall into place, like any proper tool.
And he did.
Silently.
He moved without complaint, assisting where needed, lifting crates, organizing salvaged materials, fetching water for healers who'd stayed behind. Not because he was told to. But because it was better to blend in.
He couldn't afford to be interesting. Not here. Not now.
Not while the eyes of the estate were still watching.
From the second-floor balcony of the main residence, a silhouette moved behind a gauze-draped window. Julian didn't look up, but he felt the weight of observation brush against his skin like a cold hand.
Evelyn Averill, perhaps.
Or Isabella.
