The late afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting long, stretching shadows across the polished floor of Derek's private study. The room was a sanctuary of silence, insulated from the rest of the estate by thick stone walls and heavy tapestries.
Derek sat behind his massive oak desk, a fortress of wood covered in maps and reports. He was not wearing his military coat. He was dressed in a simple white shirt and dark trousers, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the bandages on his forearms—remnants of the "war" he had just won. But his mind was still on the battlefield. Not the physical one in Strathmore, but the shadow war being fought right here in the capital.
He was waiting.
He picked up a quill, twirling it between his fingers. The tip scratched rhythmically against the wood of the desk.
