The air in Constantine’s private study was dry and heavy with the scent of aged vellum and freshly ground ink. Outside, the moon hung low over the spires of the Astraia palace, casting long, skeletal shadows across the floorboards. Inside, the only light came from a cluster of thick tallow candles that hissed and sputtered on the central oak table. Constantine sat hunched over a sprawling map of the southern territories, his fingers tracing the coastal trade routes like a general planning a siege. Across from him, Elena was a whirlwind of silent focus, her quill scratching frantically against a stack of ledgers.
"The southern salt pans are the jugular of this kingdom’s commerce, Elena. Do you see the bottleneck at the Oakhaven crossing?" Constantine asked, his voice low and rasping in the
