By the next morning, Arik had already decided that if Noah Claymore entered his office looking exhausted, irritated, and privately murderous, he would count the day improved before breakfast.
The imperial heir's office had returned to its usual. The wall display behind the desk carried layered reports in muted ether-blue lines - procurement trails, financial cross-links, access attempts, communication logs, and the increasingly unpleasant spread of names branching out from House Vael like rot under polished lacquer.
Gregoris stood opposite the desk, one hand near the edge of a projected report pane, dark uniform severe enough to make him look less like a man giving a briefing and more like the reason the briefing existed.
"If handled narrowly," Gregoris said, "the damage remains social and financial. If handled correctly, the house loses informal access for the next five years and any illusion that beauty in the right room compensates for stupidity."
