Two weeks had passed since the death of Nicolas von Aldros.
Today was the day of his farewell.
The gardens of the Castle of Valon had been chosen for it—the widest space within the walls, shaped not for ceremony, but for gathering. Stone paths cut through carefully kept greenery, fountains stood still without sound, and banners hung lowered, their colors muted in respect. It was a place meant to hold many, and today, it did.
Silence ruled the garden.
Not the empty kind, but the deliberate stillness that followed loss. Voices were kept low. Movements measured. Even those accustomed to command and war stood with restraint, as if the space itself demanded it.
They had come from everywhere.
Kings. Monarchs. Representatives of continents that rarely agreed on anything, now standing side by side without dispute. Not for politics. Not for appearances. But because the name being honored today carried weight across borders.
