"Bless Mikhailis. Bless those tiny wonders."
Rodion's text flicked a pale heartbeat of acknowledgment in her lens, then vanished.
Minor reports rolled by—border patrols noting quiet roads since the new fortified waystations (another ant innovation) deterred smugglers; the tax assessor celebrating smoother coin flow now that secret under-streets funneled bulky trade wagons beneath the clogged northern passes; the Guildmaster of Artisans requesting modest funds to repaint the public amphitheater's faded frescos. Compared to treaty wrangling, these issues felt feather-light.
Yet time flew. Amber shafts creeping across the marble floor lengthened and cooled toward noon. When Aelthrin finally pronounced the agenda concluded, sunlight had shifted high enough that the stained-glass saints above the chamber doors cast halos on the back wall.
