Strax's office was bathed in a calm, golden light. The wide windows let the wind in, carrying the distant smell of hot metal from the forges and the sound of hammers echoing against the walls. The air smelled of leather, ink, and paper—the smell of progress.
On the dark wood table lay open scrolls of parchment, small bags of coins, and a tray with wax seals. The city's coat of arms—the raven framed in runes—was stamped on every new document. Everything was new, but already beginning to bear the weight of a growing nation.
Monica stood beside the table, her white hair pulled back in a loose bun, a clipboard in her hands. Her tone of voice was the same as always: firm, elegant, and with that touch of irony that disguised her weariness.
