The sitting room was quiet when Damian returned. Not empty, never empty, but quiet in the way only firelight and good walls could manage. The hearth glowed with slow-burning embers, the kind Edward insisted on maintaining "for ambiance," which usually meant to stave off the Emperor's looming moods without having to say anything aloud.
Damian sank into the chair near the fire, loosening the cuffs of his shirt as he dropped into it. His drink waited, already poured—amber and smooth, the glass cold to the touch.
Edward, of course, was standing by the low table, sorting through tomorrow's chaos like it was a pleasant hobby.
"Your Grace," he said without looking up, "you'll be pleased to know Astana has only attempted to kill you with meetings four times instead of the usual six."
Damian took a slow sip, letting the warmth settle behind his teeth before he replied. "He's growing soft."
