[Evrard's POV]
A man in his late forties, with a distinguished white beard and swept-back white hair, was sitting on his high-backed armchair. His hand was pressing against his temporal region, where a dull headache had been steadily building for the better part of the morning.
Frustration and exhaustion were already wearing heavily on him. At this point, he barely knew which problem he should deal with first.
With a weary sigh, Lord Evrard grumbled, "My daughter suddenly refuses to return home a few days ago, and now there is also some troubling matter concerning Frostgrave Fortress."
He was starting to wonder what exactly he had done to deserve such a week.Calyra disappearing without properly informing the household where she intended to go had already been troublesome enough.
'That child of mine… what is she up to this time?'
