A white-haired boy, with snow-colored pupils and hair like it's wrapped in a layer of icy brilliance, sits on a wide chair.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows behind the third floor of the castle, a flock of seagulls and terns are draped in the sunset glow, carrying with them the forest-breeze, stirring up waves along the coast.
White Dragon Gomot holds his forehead with one hand while revising documents with the other. One document after another goes through his review and annotations, now piling up into a thick stack on the wide and long desk.
After finishing revisions on the last two reports, "On relocating and digesting the Elf Tribe internally," and "Suggestions on attracting technical and cultural talents through cultural propaganda and generous treatment," he finally lets out a long sigh.
