The capital of the Kingdom of Aden, the city of Werner, was slowly casting off the torpor of winter. The city was submerged in the golden light of the early sun.

An endless caravan stretched along the paved streets. Heavy winter carriages, bound in thick felt and iron-shod, were retreating to rest in deep repair hangars and storage vaults. Instead of closed carriages, light, open spring cabs rolled out onto the streets of Werner. The sunlight quivered upon their freshly painted flanks, and a new system of springs, instituted by the Rosenthal trading house, transformed the former rattling over the pavement into a barely perceptible, rocking lull.

The city was coming alive. On the southern slopes of the hills, the first spring flowers were already forcing their way through and opening their buds here and there. From the open windows of the coffee houses drifted the scent of fresh pastries and strong coffee, and the metropolitan gossips, weary of boudoirs over the winter, finally turned out onto the boulevards, exposing their faces to the affectionate sun.

The royal palace was buzzing like a disrupted beehive. A mere handful of days remained before the chief celebration of the beginning of the year, the Spring Festival, and preparations for it were proceeding at full throttle. Dozens of servants carried heavy tubs of exotic plants out onto the terraces, gardeners sheared the shrubs within the labyrinths of the formal gardens, and court ladies frantically discussed what attire they would utilize to astonish society this time.

Whispers, like a light spring draft, penetrated through the forged grates of the garden and diffused over the pavements of Werner. Upon the open terraces of the coffee houses and within the shaded alleys, a single name resounded: Rosenthal. Over the long winter, the capital had languished for loud upheavals, and now greedily, with a sort of frantic rapture, washed the bones of the enigmatic owners of the newly appeared trading house.

In truth, verity had become so tightly intertwined with overt fabrication in these conversations that it was already impossible to separate one from the other.

Within the silence of a closed gentlemen's club, thick with the smoke of expensive cigars, two officials from the ministry of trade leaned over a map of the southern ports.

“I tell you, my friend, the sign of 'Rosenthal' is merely a screen,” one of them tapped his finger nervously against the polished wood of the table, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial half-whisper. “A runaway southern prince stands behind all of this. One of the islanders. I heard he amassed an unthinkable fortune on the contraband of rare mana crystals and a strange powder. He bought up this old baronial title and put the capital into circulation through front operations.”

His interlocutor merely smirked skeptically, shaking off his ash.

“Come now, people witness princes in every southerner. Barons they are and barons they remain, simply arrogant and with a tight purse.”

At that exact same time, upon the open terrace of the pastry shop "The Golden Beehive," three ladies, rustling in spring silks, froze over cups of steaming chocolate. A young baroness waved her lace handkerchief impatiently.

“I command absolutely reliable sources within the judicial department. They swear that the true mistress of the trading house is an aging foreign baroness! She skillfully conceals her face beneath a veil of black lace so that no one might decipher the secret of her frightening, unnatural eternal youth. They say she does not wash off her white paint even at night!”

“What nonsense,” the marquise sitting opposite interrupted her, compressing her lips nervously. “It is not a matter of rouge at all. Do you know what sums some backwater barony expended on the reconstruction of the manor? They gossip of fabulous millions over there! My spouse insists that the gold of the Rosenthals smells of something far more sinister... A dangerous, forbidden magic that these upstarts utilize to subject the nobility to themselves.”

These words compelled the flock of ladies to exchange frightened glances, while accidental passersby on the boulevard involuntarily slowed their pace, listening closely to others' speech.

The vast house, enclosed by a high, blank wall, had stood empty for nearly two decades until it was purchased by Theodore Weisshart for his niece. Since then, the building had been brought into order, embellished, and permanent servants were engaged to care for the house. This had occurred fifteen years prior. But last year, no sooner had the first snow dissolved than the manor set about living a life feverish and terrifying in its speed.

Scaffolding shot up around the old mansion in a matter of days. Before the eyes of the astonished neighbor-counts, the old stone nest was not simply restored - it was completely reborn. Attached to the main building were two grandiose lateral wings with high windows reaching toward the sky, within which in the evenings, contrary to all logic, a steady, dazzlingly white light ignited, resembling neither oil lamps nor cheap magical fixtures.

Since the commencement of this very year, strings of enclosed wagons stretched time and again toward the heavy oak gates of the manor. Hired laborers in identical, decent liveries bearing the embossed sign of a rose and a sword unloaded vast canvas-covered boxes and crates without rest, from which drifted the scent of expensive timber, lacquer, and foreign incense.

“They say a entire shipment of 'Moon Mist' was delivered there yesterday,” lamented the spouse of a court councilor, fanning herself nervously. “And not two or three bolts for royal personages, but entire bales! From where do these people command the right to buy up fabric that is not present even within the wardrobe of Her Majesty?”

“Come now, dear,” a mustachioed cavalier seconded her, following with his gaze yet another Rosenthal cab, which most likely cost twice the value of their own transport. “Fabric is a trifle. My servant whispered with a coachman from the House of Weisshart. The baron hosted a female relative from the Rosenthal family. And they whisper over there that the head of the house is a woman. Without a husband. Can you possibly imagine such a thing?”

These words compelled the flock of court ladies to gasp in surprise. An independent woman managing capital frightened conservative Werner far more than foreign princes or shadow syndicates.

Two carriages, upon the lacquered doors of which emblems in the form of a crossed sword and rose were proudly displayed, stopped smoothly at the main entrance of the manor. Now this grandiose, updated domain was designated as Rosenwald.

The butler and the doorman hastened to open the heavy leaves, and the masters of the house stepped out into the courtyard, toward the spring sun. Little Strelitzia, who had turned five years old, rubbed her eyes sleepily with her fists, nestled cozily in the arms of her father - Marcus. Following her spouse, Elena Rosenthal stepped gracefully from the carriage. No sooner had the servants lined up along the path caught sight of her than they froze in astonishment and set about whispering barely audibly. Draped over Elena's shoulders was a light, luxurious fur coat of immaculate white fur - an item so rare and costly for this place that it instantaneously gave away the true, terrifying scale of their employers' wealth.

At that moment, the door of the leading carriage opened. Ophelia Hansen protectively extended her hand and assisted her mistress with descending onto the paved tiles of the courtyard.

Azalea Rosenthal swept a glance over the restored wings of the mansion, inhaled the fresh spring air of Werner with a full chest, and pronounced confidently:

“Well, here we are home.”