The grand negotiating chamber of the Ministry of Whispers was designed to be intimidating. It was long, narrow, and deliberately underlit, paneled in dark Morreth oak that swallowed sound.
Maren Thornwick-Ashvane sat at the head of the long black table, her posture perfectly straight despite her eighty-two years. She did not wear the ceremonial robes of the Grand Ordinator. She wore a simple, tailored black suit with the silver cog-and-flame pinned to her lapel.
Across the table sat the delegation from the Kesseth Hegemony. They looked exhausted. They had been in Ashenveil for three weeks, subjected to the relentless, bureaucratic attrition that the Ministry of Whispers used in place of physical torture.
"We are prepared to accept the revised borders of the southern exclusion zone," the lead Kesseth diplomat said, his voice tight. He pushed a heavy parchment document across the polished wood. "And we acknowledge the Dominion's primary navigation rights in the deep water channels."
