The clock in the primary study struck midnight with twelve gongs.
At the desk, I sat rubbing my temples and staring down at a three-foot-long parchment scroll detailing winter grain reserves for the southern baronies. Across the room, Diego was buried behind a pile of territorial patrol logs.
"If I read one more sentence about barley quotas," I murmured, holding back a yawn, "I'll burn this desk to ashes."
Diego looked up from his stack and an amused smile crossed his face as he tossed his quill onto the blotter.
"That's the first intelligent thing said in this room since seven o'clock."
"Diego," I warned softly, though a helpless smile tugged at my lips. "We have the Coalition finance summit at eight in the morning."
"The Coalition finance summit can wait." Diego stood up.
He cross
