The chamber was lit only by the warm glow of oil lamps, shadows stretching long across the piles of parchment on Azrayel's desk. Metheea sat quietly in the cushioned chair opposite, her eyelids heavy though she fought to stay alert.
Azrayel's voice carried low and steady as he spoke with Polo, sharp as steel despite the late hour. She wondered at his strength. He rose before dawn to train with soldiers, endured endless hours in council, traveled to distant lands that required his attention, faced dignitaries eager for favor, then returned here to drown in scrolls and decrees. And still, when the kingdom was accounted for, he found time to tutor her.
