Zarius let the quill slip from his fingers, where it hit the ink-stained desk with a sharp clack. Gods, his shoulders felt as though they'd been forged from lead and then left out in the rain to rust. It was well past midnight. This marathon session of logistics, supply chains, and the relentless paperwork required for the upcoming subjugation had drained him down to the marrow.
But his mind? His mind was nowhere near the maps or the troop. It was drifting, stubbornly and quite annoyingly, toward the West Wing.
Zarius stood, a chorus of pops echoing from his spine. That was enough for tonight. Everything could wait for sunrise. He headed for the door, walking faster than he meant to. It was just a procedure, he told himself.
Liar.
He was actually looking forward to the inevitable headache Cherion would provide. The boy was likely throwing a magnificent tantrum over the late hour, or perhaps he was already sprawled across the bed in that chaotic, limbs-everywhere sleep of his.
