Sylvia stared blankly at the sheet of paper before her. The black letters covering the parchment seemed like an endless army, assaulting her mind with relentless consistency. The black quill had long since been set aside, its tip slightly dried with ink, yet she hadn't used it again.
At first, she thought it was still morning. The sky outside the hall's window was gray, the sunlight muted by winter fog hanging heavy in the air. It felt like a morning that never ended, dragging Sylvia deeper into her routine without realizing how much time had passed.
But then the hall's door creaked softly, and light footsteps approached.
"Your Majesty," Celes's voice was gentle, yet firm enough to break her reverie.
Sylvia lazily lifted her face. Standing before the large desk, Celes held a silver tray. From the bowl resting on it, thin steam curled upward, and the delicate aroma of vegetable and meat soup slowly filled the cold air of the hall.
