Ian extended a hand out the window. The humid breeze had begun to dry, carrying the crisp bite of approaching cold. Summer's fiery reign was ending; autumn was on the cusp.
A soft knock.
"My Lord. Are you awake?"
"I am."
"Breakfast is served."
Since the Imperial decree and his investiture as Viscount, Ian's position had solidified. Day-to-day life remained largely unchanged, yet he felt the subtle *weight* of his new authority.
The title, for instance. "My Lord."
*Amusing.* He'd held far grander titles, commanded far greater power. Yet this...this felt different. A hard-won foothold, not a birthright.
Ian took his seat opposite Romandro, the servants already laying out the morning meal.
"Good morning, Lord Romandro."
"Ah, Viscount Ian. A good night's rest, I trust?"
"Indeed. Some tepid water, if you please."
"Of course, My Lord."