I stood on the grand balcony of Thorne Estate, watching as the sun dipped toward the horizon and cast long shadows across our grounds. Today marked the fiftieth anniversary of the Festival of Light, and for the first time in my life, I would preside over it as the Duke of Thorne. My father had passed this sacred duty to me last year, following tradition.
"Everything is ready, Your Grace," Alistair's grandson, Edmund, appeared at my side. Though not as ancient as his grandfather had been, Edmund had the same dignified bearing and unwavering loyalty.
"Thank you, Edmund." I nodded, surveying the estate grounds below. "The people have begun to arrive?"
"Yes, Your Grace. A steady stream since midday."
