The study smells like old wood and smoke when I step back in.
It sits deep in the caravan’s inner ring, past two bends and a warded threshold—hard to rush, harder to overhear. The desk is scarred oak, built for use, not display. Shelves crowd the walls, stacked with the kind of books Adrian claims are “necessary precedent” and Orion calls “weapons with paper blades.” A map table dominates the center, though tonight the charts are rolled aside, replaced with glasses, a dark bottle, and neat stacks of documents.
Amber light catches in the liquor.
Orion stands near the desk, sleeves rolled, tension still radiating off him like heat off stone. Silas pours drinks with efficient precision. Adrian sits at the table, papers aligned, expression carved from restraint.
Silas hands me a glass. I d
