The faint rustle of parchment fills the chamber.
Alix sits behind his wide obsidian desk, reports stacked neatly in front of him, though half of them already bear his handwriting. A faint glow from enchanted lanterns washes the room in steady light, pushing back the shadows of dawn.
He leans back in his chair, the latest report still open in his hand. His gaze lingers on the words, but his thoughts drift beyond the ink.
"…five already," he murmurs to himself. "Five out of twenty."
The parchment trembles faintly between his fingers before he sets it down.
His eyes narrow. "And yet… silence from the empire."
Draya, standing nearby with her hands clasped, tilts her head slightly but doesn't interrupt. She knows this tone—her master is not speaking to her, but to the air, to himself.
