Peace was louder than war.
In war, there was the roar of wyverns, the clash of steel, and the screaming of men. Those were honest sounds.
Peace, however, was filled with the scratching of quills, the rustle of silk, and the deafening silence of people terrified to breathe too loudly.
Mirabelle stood in the center of the Royal Throne Room of Sanctum. It had been one week since they returned from the Holy City. The transition of power had been absolute. The bureaucracy, realizing that the new management ate people who filed late reports, had become remarkably efficient.
"It's ugly," a voice echoed from the dais.
Revas stood in front of the Throne of Swords and Gold, the seat where Mirabelle's father had ruled for thirty years. He poked the gold armrest with a clawed finger.
"It's tacky," Revas critiqued. "Gold is so... last dynasty. And the cushion smells like an old man. I can't let you sit on that, Mistress. It will ruin your aesthetic."
