The rowdy, echoing laughter of the outer grand hall faded into a distant, rhythmic hum, filtered through the thick basalt walls and heavy iron-reinforced oak doors of the private quarters. The air in this inner sanctuary was completely different from the sharp, high-stakes atmosphere of the state council rooms or the smoke-filled, chaotic energy of the grand reunion feast. Here, the scent of uncalibrated festival ale and roasting meats was replaced by the intimate, grounded smells of home: rich cedarwood, old archive ink, and the deep, territorial warmth of wild pine and musk.
