Goliath sat behind his desk while the empire rearranged itself beneath his hands.
The office stretched around him in black marble, gold wardwork, and towering shelves lined with records old enough to remember nations that no longer existed. Evening light spilled through the immense arched windows to his left, turning the dark room amber at the edges while ether lamps glowed softly beneath carved imperial sigils.
Maps covered the desk before him.
Border disputes.
Trade routes.
Reports from the southern provinces.
Three letters demanding military intervention and one requesting permission to assassinate a duke in a manner apparently polite enough to classify as diplomacy.
Goliath signed the last page without looking particularly impressed by any of it.
He was dressed in black and gold.
