The study of Arthur Vale didn't just feel like a room; it felt like a cathedral of quiet industry. High, vaulted ceilings of dark oak trapped the scent of aged leather and expensive tobacco. Behind a desk carved from a single slab of obsidian sat the man who effectively held the heartbeat of the country in his hands.
Arthur Vale sat perfectly still, his eyes focused on the morning edition of the Veyra Financial Times. The headline—RIVERS INHERITANCE TRIGGERED: A NEW ERA FOR MERIDIAN?—was positioned squarely under the soft glow of his desk lamp. He didn't look like a man reading news; he looked like a man examining a map of a territory he already owned.
A sharp, rhythmic knock echoed against the heavy door. Arthur didn't look up, his gaze remaining fixed on the page. "Enter."
