The echo of footsteps rings softly against the marbled floors of the Everhart estate. Morning frost clings to the tall glass panes as pale sunlight spills into the grand hallway. Standing near one of the towering pillars, Duke Caelan Everhart watches silently, arms crossed, his eyes tracking the delicate figure ahead—his younger brother, quietly slipping past the corridor toward the garden doors.

The boy’s coat is slightly loose at the collar, hair a little tousled from sleep. Caelan’s lips twitch faintly—fondness tempered by concern. But before he can call out, a servant rushes forward, voice pitched with fretful urgency. “My lord, please—wait! You must wear another scarf! The garden stones are slick with frost—you’ll catch cold!”