Adalrich Barclay sat in his house in Krakovia feeling numb. Borys, the man who had been almost a second father to him, who until a year ago had seemed as vital and hearty as he had during the heady days of the Civil War, dead. It felt... unreal. If he had to pick a word for it, that would be it. Like a cruel joke played on not just him, but on all Savoy, if not Almaris. If he was sure of one thing it was that a man like him would not be seen again for many years, if at all. He re-read the letter left to him for probably the twentieth time. "Rest well, Uncle-" He said, finally setting the tear-stained piece of parchment down. "Und worry not, your children are in gut hands." He rose from where he was seated and made his way towards the castle. After all, there was work to be done.