[Silthara Palace — Emperor's Office — The Same Night]
Night had descended fully upon Silthara Palace.
Beyond the tall lattice windows of the Emperor's office, the desert sky stretched wide and endless, its darkness pierced by a thousand cold stars. Oil lamps burned steadily along the carved stone walls, their flames trembling gently as the night wind slipped through the high arches.
Only the soft scratch of a quill broke the silence inside the chamber.
Zeramet sat behind the vast cedar desk carved with ancient serpentine sigils of Zahryssar. Several parchments lay open before him—reports from distant provinces, petitions from noble houses, and the troubling matter of the broken imperial barrier.
Across the desk stood Naburash.
Calm.
Composed.
He was reviewing a parchment with careful attention, his long fingers resting lightly upon the page. Then Zeramet suddenly stopped writing.
