Someone—probably Arnold's tireless quartermasters—had dragged the wreck of a stargazer's worktable into the room's center. Its once-polished mahogany edges were now splintered charcoal, but the surface held firm under layers of charcoal maps, broken sigil lenses, and scrolls sealed in cracked red wax. An empty seat waited at the table's far side, its backrest scorched but upright—almost expectant.
Erich leaned over a slender decanter of dark wine, hair still clotted with grey ash. He wore yesterday's tunic, torn at one sleeve, and a smile that looked too casual for a man who'd tasted two hours of sleep. When he tipped the decanter, the stream wobbled, splashing crimson droplets onto a province-wide map of Varzadia. The ink bled. He didn't notice.
