Altair stood in his father's chambers, the room unchanged since Lord Godric's death three days ago.
The bed was still made. The curtains still drawn. The faint smell of medicine still hung in the air, mixing with something stale.
Helena had offered to have the room cleared, but Altair had asked her to wait. He needed to see it first. Needed to understand what had happened.
Because something didn't sit right.
His father had been strong. Not young, but not frail either. He'd commanded the Sentinel Commander for decades, fought in skirmishes, maintained the estate with iron discipline. Men like that didn't just waste away in six months.
Not naturally.
Altair walked slowly around the room, his eyes scanning every surface. The nightstand. The wardrobe. The desk by the window. Everything was pristine, organized, exactly as his father would have kept it.
Nothing looked out of place.
