The advisor's chamber was silent save for the faint hum of the projection array that floated above the obsidian desk, casting cold blue light across walls of black glass.
Aster sat still in the high-backed chair, carved from a single block of night stone, fingers pressed together beneath his chin.
His golden eyes, which hadn't shown an unnecessary emotion in twenty-seven years, moved over a dozen shifting maps and intercepted messages that floated in the air like ghosts awaiting judgment.
Another report appeared before him, penned in the shaky hand of a spy who knew he wouldn't live to see the sunrise.
Aster read it without blinking, without a change in breath, showing nothing but the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—something that, to someone who knew him well, might almost pass for satisfaction.
"Shia… she should be wrapped around Kale's finger by now," he murmured at last, his voice low and precise.
