Bradley stopped before the door, gently pushed it open, and stepped back with a brief, restrained gesture of invitation.
Varius walked inside, and the door closed behind him, shutting out the footsteps outside.
The air smelled of ink, mingled with the aroma of freshly brewed hot coffee.
There was none of the damp wood smell found in old aristocratic studies, nor any incense deliberately burned to create an atmosphere.
This was less a space meant to display status than a workplace ready to resume its operations at any moment.
Varius instinctively took two steps forward.
Enormous parchment maps completely covered three walls.
Layer upon layer of contour lines marked ridges and valleys. Mineral veins were meticulously traced, and even seasonal changes in flow rate were noted beside the rivers.
In the corners of certain regions, tiny writing recorded population density, grain production, and the composition of the workforce.
Red lines extended from the various provinces, threading through the maps like blood vessels.
Blue lines intersected them, marking waterworks and geothermal heating networks.
Every line ultimately pointed toward the same red dot-Red Tide City.
Varius stood rooted to the spot.
He suddenly had the distinct illusion that he had entered not a room, but the interior of an enormous, intricate instrument.
And this room was that machine's brain.
Just then, he noticed the wall on the other side. It was not a solid wall, but an immense sheet of glass.
Through it, he could look down over the city below.
Lights spread through the polar night, and the streets resembled orderly bundles of nerves.
People flowed along them, convoys passed through, and patrolling knights and workers pushing carts yielded to one another. Everything moved to an established rhythm.
There was neither clamor nor stagnation.
Varius swallowed.
This was the true heart