The morning sun had climbed high into the sky, its bright, relentless light piercing through the heavy velvet drapes of Derek's study. Dust motes danced in the beams, swirling around the stacks of parchment that littered his massive oak desk.
Derek sat in his high-backed chair, his posture rigid. He looked tired. He rubbed his temples, trying to focus on the ledger in front of him. Marissa had brought it to him earlier, pointing out the necessary preparations for winter for the household—firewood stocks, grain reserves, coal, wool for the servants.
"Winter is coming," Derek whispered to himself, reading a report on the grain silos.
Marissa had been thorough. She had audited not just the money, but the supplies.
