The rhythmic rustle of parchment was the only sound in the Prince's study, a dry counterpoint to the soft splash of wine as Alpheo refilled his cup. He leaned back into the shadows of his high-backed chair, watching Aron meticulously arrange the year-end reports across the oak table.
It had been months since Alpheo had sat in this room with his royal diplomat. To look at Aron was to look at a man who seemed untouched by the passage of time; his robes were as crisp, his posture as precise, and his demeanor as unruffled as the day Alpheo had departed for the North.
He felt as though the entire world had remained frozen in amber while he alone had been dragged through the fire and emerged out halved.
"Apologies for the wait, Your Grace," Aron finally spoke with a sharp huff of breath, pulling Alpheo back from the brink of his own thoughts. "As you requested, I have compiled the surveys of this final quarter. Where would your Grace like to begin this post-mortem?"
