Aldric Thorne sat in his private office—a space that reflected decades of military service through accumulated scars rather than decorative choices, walls lined with tactical maps and combat documentation instead of noble house portraits or Academy propaganda. The room smelled faintly of old paper, metal, and the sharp antiseptic tang that never quite left men who had spent too many years near field hospitals and forward command posts. Every surface had a purpose. Every object had earned its place.
The desk before him was scarred by heat marks and shallow gouges, the remnants of moments when restraint had slipped and reports had been read one time too many. A cracked corner bore the imprint of a gauntlet strike from years ago—back when he'd still believed anger could substitute for authority. He hadn't bothered to replace it. The damage was a reminder, and Aldric valued reminders more than comforts.
