Malvoria sat behind her desk, chin resting on one fist, scowling at the stack of reports she'd already read twice.
Her office was neat suspiciously so. A rare ray of late-morning sun slanted across the dark wood, illuminating dust motes in the air and the gleaming obsidian handles of her swords.
The door was ajar, letting in the distant echo of castle life—somewhere a servant trilled a lullaby, and far off, a child's high laughter rang like a bell.
But not Kaelith's. Kaelith, her chaos, her fire, was off at the demon spa with Elysia and the "gentle souls."
Malvoria snorted at the phrase, rolling it over in her mind like a pebble in her boot. Gentle.
As if she were some rampaging beast who couldn't keep her hands off the spell-engraved tiles. It wasn't as if she'd ever burned down an entire bathhouse. Not intentionally, anyway.
Her gaze slid to the clock. Nearly lunch. She hadn't had this much unbroken quiet in weeks.
