The snow had fallen through the night — soft, relentless, muffling the city under its pale shroud.
Windsor woke half asleep, its chimneys smoking like distant war camps.
By noon, the wind shifted east, carrying with it the chill of old ghosts.
The House by the River
Charlton's carriage stopped before a riverside manor at the edge of the city — not grand, but proud, its columns darkened by smoke and rain.
The flag of the Cobalts still hung over the doorway — blue and gold, faded but unlowered.
Earl Hugo Cobalt had not changed the banner since the war.
He had simply refused to surrender it.
The butler who opened the door hesitated at the sight of Charlton, then stepped aside wordlessly.
Charlton removed his gloves as he entered the foyer — the air smelled faintly of wood polish and gunpowder.
He remembered this house. He had sat here once, years ago, beside a hearth with a man who had called him brother.
That man now stood in the doorway of his study.
