[Third Person].
The arrival of Oscar Elrod at the Fellowes's Residence was an unexpected visit.
Every servant in the household froze at his sudden, unexpected presence.
Reginald, who had been seated in his study nursing a glass of whiskey despite the scorching afternoon sun, stiffened. His jaw tightened, as if understanding something amiss.
A few moments later, a servant hurried in, pale. "Sir… the Royal Adviser is here."
Reginald rose slowly. "Let him in."
---
Oscar did not come to the Fellowes's Residence alone. Two royal guards stood behind him, armoured, silent, and immovable. The sight alone was enough to turn the air thick.
Reginald forced composure onto his face as he stepped into the main sitting room. "Oscar," he greeted, though the title Your Grace died in his throat.
Oscar did not bow to him either. He did not smile as he unrolled a sealed scroll bearing the royal crest.
"By order of His Majesty, King Draven Oatrun of Stormveil."
