On a cold spring day in Lanark, the dawn emerged in the wake of Noctavian's and Egon's mysterious disappearance through the mana gate. And Adela found herself seated behind her bureau, her eyes carrying the heavy burden of sleep deprivation as they fixated upon the decree resting atop her desk.
"Are you absolutely certain about this?" The Duke of Latora inquired, casting a watchful shadow over the Archduchess.
Doubt nagged at her.
Adela unwound the soft violet wool shawl, skillfully knitted by Larissa, from around her shoulders. She draped it snugly around her neck, encircling it three times, her gaze then falling to the elegant blue fabric of her dress. Her hand, tense and clutching her thigh, had remained in that steadfast position for some time now.
The act of signing this decree, even though it was blatant forgery, was inescapable.
"…It's the sole means to quell the murmurs of the nobility. He is too young to act independently."
