The air in the study was unusually still, thick with the scent of burning cedar from the hearth
The scent of ink and old parchment clung to the air like dust in a tomb.
Azarion stood at the tall arched window of his study, the velvet drapes drawn back, revealing the view of Emberhold below.
its iron roofs and smoldering chimneys softened by the pale, unforgiving light of morning. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back, knuckles white with restrained fury.
On the desk lay a single parchment, its red wax seal of Caelmont broken, open, mocking. its content poisoning the silence that hung like a blade over the room.
A quiet knock interrupted the silence.
"Enter," Azarion said without turning.
"Your Grace, Lord Aldric is here," came Steven's voice, clipped and respectful.
A moment later, Aldric stepped in.
The door creaked open, and Aldric stepped in, his boots muffled by the thick carpet. He glanced at the letter on the desk but said nothing of it.
