Morning in Iron Hearth always began with a monotonous orchestra of machinery. The sky was draped in a thin veil of gray—not a threatening overcast, but not a welcoming clarity either. It was simply the eternal gray typical of an industrial city. The factory chimneys in the distance continued to vomit white smoke into the sky, while the rumble of freight trains passing on magnetic rails sounded precisely on time, like a mechanical heartbeat that knew no exhaustion.
However, inside the main hall of Iron Hearth Castle, that rhythm felt chaotic.
Roland Sudrath stood motionless in the center of the hall. His fingers, usually nimble, appeared stiff as they held a stack of parchments. Sret... sret... He flipped through the papers for the umpteenth time. Menus, tour routes, security protocols, down to the order of the guards. He had memorized them since dawn, yet somehow, the letters seemed to dance, mocking him.
"Hmm, have you had breakfast?"
