Mirabelle sat in her mother's study opposite the enormous, heavy desk.
Her legs were stretched out, her arms stubbornly folded across her chest.
The very image of a sulking daughter.
Morning light filtered through the tall windows, illuminating countless shelves filled with leather-bound ledgers and maps.
The faint scent of ink, old parchment, beeswax, and polished wood lingered in the room.
Somewhere a grandfather clock ticked patiently, measuring Mirabelle's growing impatience one second at a time.
Her mother sat behind the desk, deliberately making her wait.
She was still completely absorbed in the document she was reading.
Every now and then she turned a page with practiced elegance.
Not hurried.
Not slow.
Exactly fast enough to remind Mirabelle who was currently in control.
'Probably another letter from the High Duchess,' Mirabelle mused as she watched her mother through narrowed eyes.
It was fascinating how slowly Beastmen aged.
