The estate was quiet except for the ticking of the clock and the low hum of the communication relay.
This place was from the older part of the capital, made of stone and silence, tucked high in the hills above the capital. One of his private properties, inherited from a line of kings who'd preferred solitude to spectacle. It was his grandfather's private estate, one that he passed down directly to Dax.
From the window, Dax could see their spires rising over the district, gilded, beautiful, and rotting from within. He'd chosen this place on purpose: close enough to the clergy's heart that he could smell the smoke of their hypocrisy.
The desk before him was covered in files, some paper, some digital, all of them smelling faintly of incense and rot. Reports from the Intelligence Bureau. Medical ledgers cross-referenced with clergy donations. Letters stamped with the seal of the Ministry of Health.
He should've been home.
He should've been with him.
