The morning at the Blue Rose estate began as peacefully as any other day.
The gardens shimmered with dew, petals unfolding under the pale sunlight. Servants went about their duties, the rhythmic sound of sweeping blending with birdsong. The manor, a towering monument of white stone and cerulean banners, stood proudly against the misty horizon of the northern plains.
Amy Blue Rose was the heart of that calm.
The daughter of Lord Edgar Blue Rose, she was known for her laughter that filled the halls, and for her habit of talking to the roses her mother had planted before she died. To the people of the manor, she was light — unassuming, gentle, and a rare warmth in the cold North.
That morning, she sat by the garden steps, her fingers weaving a crown of blue petals. "Father said the flowers will bloom longer this year," she murmured to her maid, a girl named Rina. "Maybe I'll bring some to Mother's shrine tomorrow."
Rina smiled faintly. "You always do, my lady."
