The plain room was the most frightening room Alistair had stood in for years, and there was nothing in it to be frightened of.
No banner on the wall, and no guards that he could see. The Equalizer, broken as it was, found no one waiting behind the door either.
A desk. Two plain chairs, and one window with the shutters drawn half-closed against the afternoon glare.
Mira Solenne sat behind the desk, reading a document. She did not look up when he entered, and she finished the paragraph she was on before she allowed herself to notice that anyone had come into her room.
She was younger than he had built her in his mind.
The name carried weight in the salons. The Scrivener of Final Judgment had signed more execution orders than most generals had fought battles, so he had built a grey-haired terror out of the weight of it.
