Finally, a man entered the room. He was dressed in the customary black and gray, accented with gold trim. His hair was graying, and he looked old, perhaps around two thousand years, but still robust. He wasn't overweight—Imperions don't gain weight—but he looked well-nourished. His nose was small and flat, his eyes a deep, pale blue. In a low, resonant, and harsh voice, he asked Tiron, "Is this the one?"
Who did he think I was? Puzo Ashfog? Tiron simply nodded.
"Alright," he said, "Leave."
Tiron complied. The influential man stood there, examining me. I guess he expected me to get uneasy. After a moment, I yawned. He looked irritated.
"Something boring you?" he inquired.
I just shrugged. This individual, whoever he was, could easily order my death. But I wasn't about to grovel; my life isn't that valuable to me.
