The meeting room seemed larger than usual that morning. Or perhaps it was just Mercedes who felt smaller, shrunk within her own exhaustion. The blue torches flickered on the walls and the large ice table gleamed in the cold light… but the Monarch registered none of it.
Her mind was elsewhere.
Or rather, on another night.
Again.
The soldier in front of her talked, talked, talked—a river of formal words, numbers, reports, patrol names, movement on the northern flanks… all very important.
And absolutely nothing registered.
Because the only sound her head repeated was something else.
Groans.
Sighs.
The creaking of the mattress…
The rhythm…
The muffled laughter…
Mercedes squeezed her eyes shut for a split second, pretending to be deeply thinking about the report, but in reality, mentally begging for a truce. Her own memory was being too cruel.
