The heavy oak doors of my private study clicked shut, sealing out the hum of the administrative corridors and the lingering echoes of the evening briefings. The room was quiet, lit only by the soft, steady amber glow of a single desk lamp and the pale moonlight cutting through the tall quartz window.
There were one hundred and fifty chapters remaining until the final, absolute conclusion of the continental arc—one hundred and fifty chapters before the long journey of restoration reached its permanent, unshakeable horizon. But tonight, history belonged to the immediate present.
I stood before the large drafting table, unpinning the obsidian hairpin from my dark hair and letting the heavy strands fall over my shoulders. My fingers traced the cold edge of the final, unsealed treaty parchmen
