The sitting room, once a sanctuary of soft furs and quiet mornings, had effectively become Eris's war room. Sunlight was a myth outside the frosted windowpanes, leaving the room to the flickering amber mercy of the hearth. Eris sat straight-backed at the mahogany bureau, her robe spilling over the chair as she massaged the bridge of her nose.
A crisp knock disturbed the silence. Aldric entered, his movements precise and stiff as starched linen. Behind him trailed an Imperial Scribe... a man who looked as though he were made of parchment and ink... and a single sworn guard who stood at the threshold like a stone gargoyle.
"Your Majesty," Aldric said, bowing low. "The pardon decree for Duchess Maren, as requested."
Eris took the heavy parchment. The ink was barely dry, the scent of it sharp against the smell of burning cedar. She read it slowly, her eyes tracking every loop and serif.
