The air inside the old city hall smelled of dust, fresh paint, and old parchment.
The sounds from outside—hammers, voices, and hurried footsteps—seemed muffled inside, as if the building itself were trying to focus after centuries of silence and destruction.
The windows were still covered with makeshift boards, letting in only narrow shafts of light that cut through the air in golden streaks, thick with suspended particles.
Strax sat behind a makeshift desk made of boards and sawhorses, a stack of documents in front of him.
And each new paper looked worse than the last.
He rubbed his temple with two fingers, his gaze fixed on the columns of hastily scribbled numbers and the soot-stained invoices.
"How…" he murmured, his voice low and measured, "…is it possible to owe so much gold if the city is tiny?"
Monica, in front of him, crossed her legs elegantly and kept her tone calm.
