The heavy, suffocating scent of musk and sweat hung thickly in the air of the private office, a stark contrast to the usual sterile odor of parchment and sealing wax.
Elara stood a few feet away from the grand oak desk, her breathing already perfectly regulated. With calm, measured movements, she smoothed the heavy crimson velvet of her gown, adjusted the silver combs in her dark hair, and straightened her collar. Within forty-five seconds, she had entirely reconstructed the impenetrable armor of the Empress Regent.
She did not look flushed. She did not look disheveled. She looked as though she had just finished a mildly productive meeting regarding agricultural tariffs.
On the desk, Mahir was a vastly different picture.
