"Now… What is that?" A weak voice sounded out beside grace, as the old Lord Feltan – a man who was not truly a Lord, but had titled himself that regardless, given his ownership of the Craghill fortress – made his appearance, leaning heavily on his cane.
Grace's eyebrows rose in surprise. She hadn't expected her father. After all, his sickness was what had confined her to the irritating role of addressing the masses, yet here he was, flanked by his bespeckled doctor and his butler, leaning heavily on a cane. "Father," she said, bowing reverently, though on the inside, her thoughts were considerably more bitter. 'You just had to come, didn't you, you old coot?'
"The bridge has been sabotaged," Lord Feltan noted dryly, as he shifted towards the edge of the balcony. "And we've already lost the wall, it seems… Even the left gate tower is on fire. These are trying times."
"Forgive me, father," Grace said courteously. "My leadership wasn't good enough."
