The King's private solar did not smell like the rest of the palace. It didn't smell of lilies or old stone; it smelled of expensive tobacco, ancient parchment, and the cold, sharp scent of power.
I stood in the center of the room, my hands clasped loosely in front of my apron. I had refused to change into a silk gown. If I was going to be audited, I would go in my "work uniform." In the corporate world, you don't dress for the job you have; you dress for the "Operational Reality" of the situation.
The King sat behind a desk carved from a single block of black oak. He wasn't wearing his crown. He didn't need it. His presence filled the room like a heavy atmospheric pressure. Beside him, Lord Varick stood like a silent shadow, a stack of ledgers in his hands.
"You are the girl who plays with fire and gold," the King said, his voice a low rumble that felt like thunder in my chest. He didn't look up from the report he was reading.
