The late afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows of the imperial palace's eastern wing, gilding every surface in pale gold, though no one inside the office seemed particularly inclined to admire the view.
Caelan sat behind the wide blackwood desk, sleeves rolled to his forearms, his signature pen stilling mid-signature as the door clicked open. The silence in the room was not idle; it was the type carved out by efficiency and too many years of ruling by precision rather than sentiment.
Sirius leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, posture deceptively relaxed. Lucius, meanwhile, paced once in front of the desk, as if trying to shake off the weight of too many threads converging.
The messenger bowed once and handed over a sealed file. Caelan broke the wax with a flick of his thumb, flipped it open, and read the first page in silence.
Then the corner of his mouth curled—just slightly.
