Elara slid the heavy stack of rejected logistics documents across the polished obsidian table.
She leaned back into her high leather chair. The movement pulled the crisp white cotton of her tailored blouse taut across her chest.
The council room was notoriously drafty. The chill of the North was unsparing, slipping easily past the heavy tapestries and seeping into the stones.
Beneath the thin, unforgiving fabric of her shirt, the firm, tight buds of her nipples were starkly visible. They pressed an arrogant, hardened imprint against the silk lining of her slate-gray vest, jutting forward with a proud sort of defiance.
She didn't cross her arms to hide it. She didn't adjust her posture. Elara simply let the cold have its way, sitting there looking like a warlord reviewing battle plans.
"Is there any other problem with the supply chains?" she asked. Her tone was flat. Clinical.
