The imperial office smelled faintly of bergamot and ink, the kind of scent that clung to power and didn't apologize for it.
Damian stood by the window, sleeves rolled back to his forearms, golden eyes scanning the report one last time. The light caught against the edge of his jaw, cutting sharp shadows down his face, but he didn't seem to notice. He was too still. The paper in his hand didn't rustle, but the tension in the room was real enough to measure.
Three names. One report.
George Claymore, officially deceased. Life support was terminated by his heir.
Anya Rhine, dead alongside Elliot Claymore in what the courts would later call a "joint act of madness." The palace staff had already stopped trying to find prettier phrasing.
