The faint creak of wood echoed as Sylvia lowered herself once more into the large velvet-lined chair. The pale blue torches fixed along the walls of her study flickered faintly, their shadows dancing against cold stone. She pulled the thin mantle tighter over her shoulders and exhaled slowly.
Lately, vigilance has become her very breath. Every report, every movement of the Church's ships, every subtle tremor from the gate to the underworld each demanded her constant attention. Even the black chains drifting around her body seemed heavier now, as though they too absorbed the tension that never fully eased.
"…exhausting," she murmured softly.
She lifted a small black cup from the desk. A thin wisp of steam still rose from the tea inside. She sipped slowly, letting the warmth travel down her throat, easing some of the knots coiled tight in her mind.
But only a few seconds of quiet passed before something shifted.
