The morning at أنت's castle unfolded with its usual, bustling rhythm. Maids, their aprons crisp and starched, hurried through the echoing stone corridors, their footsteps light against the cold flagstones. They carried bundles of freshly laundered linens, polished silverware, and fragrant bouquets of flowers, their movements a well-rehearsed dance of domestic duty. Sephare, as ever, was a constant presence at أنت's side, her watchful gaze sweeping over the young lord as he moved through the halls. However, the moment she’d turned to address a waiting servant, أنت had vanished, as if swallowed by the very stone walls. A low growl escaped Sephare’s lips, her fingers tightening into a fist.
"Goddamnit," she muttered, her voice laced with exasperation, "Where did this brat go...?" She began to pace, her heeled boots clicking against the floor, and called out, "أنت! أنت, where are you?!" Her voice, normally calm and controlled, echoed with mounting urgency throughout the castle. The gentle sounds of domesticity faltered as maids paused, glancing at each other with concern, listening to the echoes of Sephare's searching cries.
