The sun had barely crested the highest of the Five Peaks when the master chamber of the Jorailian pavilion, a scene of utter, exquisite debauchery just hours before, was transformed into a quiet, efficient hub of activity. The heavy scent of sex had been banished by a whisper of cleansing wind magic, the tangled furs and silks replaced with crisp, clean linen.
Alaric, already dressed in a fresh set of dark, impeccably tailored trousers and a simple silk shirt, stood before a large map of the valley, a cup of steaming, fragrant tea in his hand. He looked as if he had enjoyed a full night of restful sleep, his Archmage physique radiating a calm, potent energy.
