The quiet scratch of a brass quill against dry parchment was the only sound echoing through the expansive, high-ceilinged study of the Valtrane estate. Outside, the cold northern wind howled through the jagged mountain peaks, rattling the heavy glass windowpanes and sweeping across the endless white plains of the northern border.
Winston sat behind the massive desk, his spectacles resting low on his nose as he carefully reviewed the seasonal supply ledgers. The ink on his fingers was dry and dark.
For a man who had spent nearly forty years of his life in this very room, serving as the aide to the late Duke, being back here alone carried an almost overwhelming wave of nostalgia.
