The Pendelton Estate's outer courtyard had always been a space of feudal utility. For three generations, it was a staging ground for horse drills, a loading zone for grain tithes, and a place where the Duke's men sharpened iron. It was loud, chaotic, and fundamentally agrarian.
By sunrise on the third day after the bridge opened, Arthur had dismantled that history entirely.
The clatter of armor was gone, replaced by the sharp, rapid scratch of quill pens on heavy ledger paper. The training racks had been hauled away. In their place stood a staggered formation of long oak tables, carefully angled to direct foot traffic without creating right angles. Behind the tables sat estate scribes, flanked by stacks of freshly cut, stamped wooden tokens smelling sharply of pine sap.
Above the heavy timber gates of the courtyard, a newly painted wooden sign hung flush against the stone. It did not bear a family crest or a motto of war. It read, in stark, block lettering:
