Imperial Office, East Wing
The scent of old parchment and morning ink hung in the air, mingling faintly with the citrus oil used to polish the curved spine of the Emperor's desk. The sunset light filtered through high arched windows, gilding the imperial seal stamped onto a stack of treaties awaiting signatures. Damian stood in front of the map table, sleeves rolled up, gold cufflinks abandoned to one side, eyes narrowed at the expanding web of alliances sprawled across the southern border.
Astana stood beside him, motionless except for a flicker of his gaze across the charts. He'd been silent for some time, hands clasped behind his back in perfect military form—just as he'd been taught. Just as Damian had taught him.
"You're quiet," Damian said, without looking up. "That usually means you're either judging me or bracing for a storm."
Astana cracked the smallest of smiles. "Both."
Damian exhaled, the sound low and amused. "Fair. Which one do you think it is this time?"
