The following morning dawned gray over Arven, with low clouds covering the rooftops and a thin mist clinging to the cobblestone streets. At Morgana's mansion, however, no one paid any attention to the weather. The great main hall had been transformed into an improvised center of analysis, strategy, and sheer organized chaos. Tables once used for elegant dinners were now covered with ledgers, stained maps, coded letters, broken wooden crates, and piles of documents retrieved from the underground complex.
Damon was at the center of it all, slumped in a sturdy chair as if nothing from the previous night had required any effort. A mug of something dark rested beside his elbow, untouched for half an hour. His eyes scanned the papers with an expression of utter disgust.
"I hate documents," he declared for the third time that morning.
"And documents hate you back," Elizabeth replied without even raising her head.
