Maren Thornwick-Ashvane was ninety-four years old, and she was drowning on dry land.
The royal physicians had diagnosed the fluid building in her lungs three months ago. They had offered tinctures, aetheric treatments, and quiet prayers. She had refused all three. She didn't have time for false hope; she had a succession to manage.
She sat in the Grand Ordinator's chair in the highest tower of the Ministry of State. The chair, carved from solid heartwood and upholstered in rich, dark leather, felt far too large for her now, as if her physical form was actively shrinking away from the sheer magnitude of the office. Her hands, resting on the carefully organized, polished oak desk, were spotted with age and shook with a fine, constant tremor that she despised but could no longer control. Her breathing was shallow and labored. She could no longer walk the full length of the sprawling Ministry corridor without stopping to rest against the cold stone walls.
