"I have compiled the preliminary reports from the Eastern border garrisons, and I must urgently request your signature on the updated mythril export manifests before the Imperial Senate convenes at—"
Alistair stopped dead in his tracks.
His crystalline emerald eyes, previously focused on the Archduke, had inadvertently drifted toward the corner of the room.
They landed on Seraphina. More specifically, they landed on the material Seraphina was currently folding into a somewhat chubby paper pigeon.
The color entirely drained from Alistair's flawless, porcelain face.
The heavy, leather-bound files in his arms began to tremble.
His jaw went slack.
He let out a sound that was somewhere between a dying teakettle and a strangled sob.
"By the blinding light of the Sun God," Alistair wheezed, practically dropping his files onto the desk as he clutched his own chest.
