Chapter 3
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Morning light filtered through the office windows as I settled in well before the usual rush, diving straight into stacks of reports. A subtle stretch released the tension in my right wrist, which had grown rigid from hours of scribbling.
My long sleeve inched upward during the motion, drawing my gaze downward without thinking.
The ugly imprint—a hand in faded blue—had softened into a faint yellow shadow.
Relief washed over me; dodging the temple had been the right call.
Sure, the dominant hand’s inconvenience lingered briefly, but patience proved the best remedy.
That simple salve had worked wonders.
Sleeve adjusted, pen reclaimed, I dismissed the notion of temple healers for such a trifle.
Everett Rojas truly grasped nothing of fiscal sense.
Lavish spending like that struck me as pure extravagance, regardless of whose purse it drained.
Flat fees at temples deterred trivial cases bound for herbalists or healers.
Clever design, or perhaps a noble trap for those craving godly fixes for scratches.
Half my yearly earnings vanished for a mere wrist mark? Unthinkable.
A few silvers’ worth of balm mended it swiftly; two hundred gold bordered on lunacy.
Satisfied, I clasped the pen once more.
Distractions had no place now.
Eight years of tax data across seven properties demanded completion before nightfall.
Quitting time long gone, yet two piles mocked me still.
Endless tasks queued behind, offering zero mercy.
Blame rested with the emperor’s imminent homecoming, fresh from coronation and frontier wars spanning eight years.
Every bureau scrambled to compile dossiers for his inspection.
Triumphal arrival loomed—three days off? Four? Exhaustion blurred the count.
Warlord or butcher of lives, his fury seemed unlikely to snag a drone like me.
Head low through the gale sufficed.
Superiors, though, endured nonstop grilling.
Jangled tempers rippled outward, gripping palace functionaries tight.
Treasury bore the strain equally.
Frontline dispatches covered only crises.
Formal submissions glossed over trivia, streamlined for brevity.
Prolonged vacancy invited sloth among underlings.
Throne-seizer via bloodbaths and noble culls, his dread aura endured.
Yet time eroded even steel over eight cycles.
Fresh appointees knew him solely from portraits.
Tales of realm-crushings or dynasty-doomings passed as tavern chatter.
Proximity would shatter that distance.
Full audit awaited the absent era’s deeds; anxiety gripped all.
My spotless ledger still sparked faint doubts upon reflection.
Donovan’s sharp bark at Connie pulled my eyes; a quiet sigh escaped.
Shift in imperial fortunes ignited his ire.
Elites wore funeral masks; his outdid them in gloom.
Guilty of pilfering, perhaps?
Shoulders eased with a shrug.
Shady aura aside, proof eluded me.
Escalating frenzy fueled doubts.
Cowardice barred grand schemes from his grasp.
Wild thrashing invited scrutiny.
Mercy for small sins? Not his style, storylines implied.
Unreformed, he embodied fantasy despots: precise, merciless across castes.
Veteran of Treasury pre-ascent, Donovan knew the beast intimately.
Panic’s root lay there.
Certainty settled: secrets burdened him.
His clamor shattered colleagues’ concentration; side-eyes flew.
Relentless prods for impossible haste.
Week-long chores crammed into hours defied reality.
“Ready yet? Move it!” he snarled.
“Almost there,” Connie murmured evenly.
Polished deference had cracked; endurance frayed.
Hourly hounds delayed progress.
“Tch, enough with ‘almost,’” he spat, stalking off.
Solitude descended; Connie sagged into her seat, defeated.
Silent oaths shaped her lips, Donovan-laced profanities plain to readers of nuance.
Coworkers averted gazes, granting space.
Her prime victim lately.
Gentle palm on her back, doorward nod; she trailed, scowling.
Sheltered nook behind Treasury offered respite.
Emotional nadir passed; words erupted in full voice, echoing prior gripes.
Attentive nods met her barbs.
Crimson tresses matched her flush as tension ebbed; head drooped to my shoulder amid a breath.
“Lately, Donovan’s unbearable.”
“Imperial news flipped his switch.”
Nose wrinkled, she huddled closer with gossip.
“Recall his Duke Camelot name-drops?”
Noble bloc head.
Kin tie through a retainer granted audiences; boasts echoed endlessly.
Office lore confirmed it.
“His Majesty’s eyeing the duke’s downfall first.”
Breath caught; lips rounded in surprise.
“Pre-coronation grudge festered. Odd he waited eight years.”
Amnesia amid purge lists, she quipped.
Survivor Duke Camelot ballooned power during void.
Victory spurred imperial reclamation.
“Whispers abound, but voices hush.”
Upright now, she winked.
“Wyvern’s reign ends as dragon descends.”
Orcish collateral? Amusing aside.
Lowly clerk Connie caught the winds.
“Duke idle?” I pondered.
“Watch unfolding,” she hedged.
Bantered lightly; knots untied fully.
Reluctant exhale: “Inside again?”
Loitering stole rest; desk deluge repelled.
Languid return.
Donovan absent sweetened air.
Midnight exodus of shades; tasks yielded.
Final ledger filed at last.
Connie drowned in sheets; query tendered.
“Share the load?”
Eyes brimmed; morals wrestled, bundle passed.
“Handle this? Lifesaver.”
Sheets taken, atop scanned.
Double-take amid fatigue; query tumbled free.
“Connie, details on your project?”
