The Royal Treasurer’s Office was a place of suffocating silence and the dry, scratchy scent of old parchment. High windows allowed narrow beams of light to cut through the gloom, illuminating the millions of dust motes that danced over mountains of stacked ledgers. It was a room where the fate of a kingdom was recorded in ink, yet it felt as lifeless as a tomb. Constantine stepped through the heavy oak doors, the rhythmic tap of his boots echoing against the polished floorboards. Behind him followed Isabella, her hand resting firmly on the hilt of her new blade, and Seraphina, who carried a leather satchel hidden beneath her cloak.
"The air here smells of greed and old ink, My Lord," Isabella whispered, her eyes sharp as they scanned the room for any hidden threats.
Constantine paused, i
