The study looked like a war zone.
An overturned inkwell had left a dark stain across the corner of the desk, dripping steadily down onto the floor below. Official border reports, stack after stack of carefully organized ledgers, and blank parchment sheets were scattered wildly across the rug, half-crumpled, torn, and tossed aside during the chaotic hours of the night. A small side table near the window had been shoved out of place, its flower vase knocked sideways and spilling water across the floor.
Cherion stood in the middle of the mess, his silver hair slightly damp from all the cleaning as he hurriedly gathered the scattered documents. He was wearing one of Zarius's white linen shirts, the shoulders hanging entirely too wide on him and the sleeves rolled up three times just to clear his wrists, paired with dark trousers as he moved around the room barefoot.
