The iron front gate of the Conway ancestral estate hung crooked on a single bronze hinge, groaning in the cold autumn draft as Grace Harper pushed the metal aside with gloved fingers.
She had traveled from the northern merchant quarter under her father's direct orders, tasked with evaluating whether Bryce Conway’s recovery was solid enough to warrant a renewed trade pact between their families. Her father, Merchant Guild Director Marcus Harper, refused to commit capital to a falling house, yet the rumors circulating through the tea houses suggested Bryce had risen from his sickbed with terrifying speed, possessing the strength of a high-tier cultivator. Grace smoothed the pleats of her emerald silk dress and adjusted her fox-fur collar, expecting to be greeted by liveried attendants, swee
