By the following dawn, Lucian Sudrath was already seated in his study before the sun had fully risen.
Four sheets of blank parchment lay spread before him—no, five. He stared at the stack, then at the open bottle of black ink on the right, and finally at the dry quill in his hand. Outside the window, a light snow fell, dusting the rooftops of Iron Hearth in a soft layer of white. The city was silent. Only the occasional whisper of the wind whistling through the stone crevices broke the stillness.
The door opened without a knock.
Roland entered, carrying a coffee pot and two cups. He wore a long-sleeved white shirt—having not yet put on his formal coat—and his hair was slightly disheveled. Traces of sleep still lingered in his eyes. "Morning, Father. I heard you haven't slept."
Lucian didn't answer. He simply stared at the parchments.
