The room was perfectly quiet again, the heavy air slowly dissipating as the palace ventilation carried away the scent of sweat and agitation. Elara held the quill with a steady hand, her signature flowing across the bottom of the Northern treaty brief with the exact same fluid, precise curves she always used.
Her mind was completely, beautifully clear. There was no lingering echo of Mahir's hurt, no secondary thought about Ken's cold compliance. There was only the paper, the ink, and the undeniable efficiency of a well-executed plan. The roller coaster of her life had offered another turn, and as always, she remained the only one entirely unbothered by the ride.
The heavy click of the door mechanism signaling Ken and Mahir's exit left the office in a state of absolute, sterile quiet. The lingering scent of iron and musk slowly dissolved into the scent of old parchment and ink.
