Dust motes dance in the amber glow of a single tallow candle, settling onto the vast, scarred surface of the drafting table. Edran Mosse works in the hollow silence of midnight, his ink-stained fingers tracing the familiar grit of old vellum. A single drop of pale wine, spilled hours ago, stains a minor river on the map before him, bloating the ink into a pale, translucent bruise. It is the weight of the ink that truly measures a man's life.
The heavy oak doors groan on their hinges, admitting a draft that makes the candle flame skip and shudder. Queen Halvanne enters alone, her midnight wool gown sweeping the floorboards with the sound of dry grass. She does not look at the maps of the living world pinned to the walls; her grey-green eyes fix instead on Edran’s silver chain of office. She unrolls a fresh sheet across his workspace, the surface titled in a sharp, unfamiliar hand: 'The Chart of the Ashen Road.'
Halvanne does not blink, her hands resting flat against the table’s edge. She demands the alteration of two roads, paths that lead only toward the silent dark. Edran feels the phantom sting of his thumb’s old scar as the Queen’s gaze sharpens with a terrifying, rehearsed intent. Halvanne's gloved hand reaches into her cloak, producing a roll of black vellum tied with human bone.
