Another candle burned down on the top floor of City Hall.
Tristan slammed a stamp engraved with the word "Approved" onto the parchment so hard that a few drops of ink splashed out of the inkwell beside him.
He had no time to bother with the stains and simply grabbed the next file.
"The Baron of Grayrock Fort requests annexation."
Tristan glanced at the family crest on the letter and scoffed.
Three months ago, this Baron had publicly declared Veylin "a madman beguiled by the abyss" and threatened to hang White Tower City's envoys from his gates.
And now?
Even the cheap perfume on the stationery could not mask the fear seeping out between the lines.
"Approved."
Tristan tossed the letter into the tray on his left-the one labeled "Joint Defense Zone."
Joint defense in name, annexation in practice.
Once that document was signed, Grayrock Fort would have to surrender half its tax revenue, conscription authority, and judicial powers, and accept a garrison from White Tower City.
It was a contract of servitude.
But they had no choice.
To the north lay the Empire's legions, driven mad by hunger. To the east were the Church's lunatics, with worms growing in their brains.
Only in White Tower City, only beneath Veylin's banner, could people still live like human beings.
"My lord, the latest figures."
A clerk pushed open the door, carrying a stack of registers taller than his head.
"Today's new citizen registrations have passed three thousand."
Tristan took the summary sheet from the top and read it line by line.
Alchemy apprentices, carpenters, stonemasons, and even a few down-and-out first-circle mages.
These skilled workers, regarded as "destabilizing elements" or "expendables" in other territories, were pouring into the Gray Marsh Fief with their families in tow.
Their bundles were ragged, but