The heavy, beautifully carved ironwood desk in the center of the manor's primary study was completely covered in the most terrifying, insurmountable obstacle the Warlord of Oakhaven had ever faced.
Paperwork.
Valeria sat comfortably in a massive, plush velvet armchair, her glowing amethyst eyes scanning the highly complex, meticulously drafted trade agreement sent by Duke Alaric of the mortal Capital. She held a perfectly balanced celestial steel letter opener in her right hand, absently spinning the lethally sharp blade through her fingers while she read. It was a lingering, subconscious habit from a brutal decade of warfare, completely out of place in the serene, sunlit room.
The Golden Age of Aethelgard had proven to be infinitely more complex than a battlefield. When Valeria commanded an army, the variables were beautifully simple: secure the perimeter, eliminate the hostile threats, and survive the night.
