The study had become my territory. Not by Darius's decree, but by my own slow, deliberate invasion. It started with the book he'd left for me, then another, and another. Now, a small, neat stack of my own making sat on the corner of his otherwise pristine desk. They were histories, mostly. Treaties, ledgers of ancient wars, detailed family trees of the great houses.
I was no longer just reading; I was cross-referencing, connecting the dots, building a mental map of the world I had been thrown into. It was my own quiet rebellion, a way of arming myself with knowledge.
I was deep in a chapter about the Salt Wars when Eliot entered. He didn't speak at first, simply placed a silver tray on the small table beside my chair. On it sat a single, cream-colored envelope. It was sealed with a familiar, arrogant stamp of blood-red wax. Harren.
