The morning sun streamed lazily through the windows of the new office, bathing the polished stone floor in warm golden tones. The distant sound of hammers in the forges mingled with the soft murmur of the streets of Asgard—a gentle, almost tranquil melody.
Strax sat in his large chair, made of dark wood and leather, reclined enough so that his feet rested on the table. An open newspaper covered his face, and only the slow rhythm of his breathing betrayed that he wasn't asleep—just resting with his eyes closed, enjoying the rare silence that the new world afforded him.
On the table, piles of documents, maps, and reports were haphazardly stacked. A glass with the remains of some wine rested beside an ornate dagger, apparently used as a letter opener.
It was the kind of scene anyone would describe as peaceful.
Almost serene.
Almost.
The door opened with a dry crack.
Strax didn't move. Not a muscle.
He only slightly turned his face from under the newspaper.
