It was oddly quiet in the Lancaster Estate.
The ever-present hum of noble life—the bustle of servants, the murmurs of scholars, the occasional laughter of family—was absent. In its place was a solemn silence.
Only the soft shuffle of guards' boots echoed along the estate's perimeter, keeping watch with disciplined eyes. Workers continued their duties—trimming the hedges, sweeping the pristine roads, polishing the estate's grand architecture—but even they moved with reverent stillness, their voices hushed as if the entire estate was holding its breath.
In one of the many rooms of the manor, deep within the heart of the estate, was a private medical ward. It was dimly lit, with only the steady beeping of life-support machines to break the stillness. Lying on the bed, pale and frail, was Richard Lancaster, the patriarch of the Lancaster family.
