Strax's office was bathed in a calm, golden light. The wide windows let the wind in, carrying the distant smell of hot metal from the forges and the sound of hammers echoing against the walls. The air smelled of leather, ink, and paper—the smell of progress.

On the dark wood table lay open scrolls of parchment, small bags of coins, and a tray with wax seals. The city's coat of arms—the raven framed in runes—was stamped on every new document. Everything was new, but already beginning to bear the weight of a growing nation.

Monica stood beside the table, her white hair pulled back in a loose bun, a clipboard in her hands. Her tone of voice was the same as always: firm, elegant, and with that touch of irony that disguised her weariness.

"The reports from the last two weeks," she began, flipping through the papers. "The new residences are practically all occupied. The families from the south have adapted faster than we expected. The demand for food and textiles has doubled, and the profits from commercial taxes are..." she paused briefly, looking at him, "satisfactory."

Strax was leaning back in his chair, one elbow resting on the armrest and the other hand holding a glass of amber liquid. His gaze wandered between the papers and the window, where the bustling city moved slowly.

"'Satisfactory'," he repeated, with a slight smile. "Coming from you, Monica, that means we're earning enough to pay the blacksmiths and still have some left over for wine, right?"

She smiled, but without looking up from the clipboard. "Something like that. The market is expanding. And as you requested, the new employees have been hired."

"Excellent." He swirled the glass, the liquid reflecting the sunlight. "Have the butchers started working with the shipments yet?"

"They started yesterday." Monica leafed through another paper. "The demand was high, but we managed to bring in good butchers from the neighboring villages. The meat hall is functioning, and the seamstresses have already started working on the hides that Shura brings from the hunts."

The name made Strax look up. A small golden glint shone in his eyes.

"Shura..." he murmured, more to himself. "And how is she doing?"

Monica lowered the papers and crossed her arms, thoughtfully.

"Quite satisfied, it seems." A rare smile appeared on her lips. "Can you believe they didn't even cook or roast the meat before?"

Strax raised an eyebrow, amused. "They're tigers, Monica. I guess fire was never a priority in their diet."

She gave a short laugh. "That's true. But now that they have warm meat every night, they're practically domesticated. Shura seems... happy."

"That's good." Strax took a sip from his glass, his gaze still distant. "She's been very useful."

The comment sounded simple, but there was weight in the words. Shura was more than an ally. She was a wild huntress, a warrior who led one of the northern tiger tribes—intelligent, brutal creatures loyal only to strength. When Strax conquered Asgard, she was one of the first to recognize in him something worth following.

"She's bringing in a lot of meat, thick hides, bones for reforging," Monica continued. "And her presence within the walls keeps most of the bandits from the surrounding areas away. Rumors say that 'the tigress of Asgard' hunts anyone who tries to steal on the roads."

Strax smiled, looking at the reflection of the wine. "The tigress of Asgard... sounds better than I expected."

"She seems proud of the title." Monica walked to the window and looked out at the city. "Just yesterday, the apprentices at the forge stopped what they were doing to watch her arrive with a cart full of wyvern fangs. And she insisted on dragging everything to the courtyard by herself. She says the men around here are getting soft."

"Hah." Strax chuckled softly. "She's a force of nature."

"A force that eats enough to feed an entire garrison," Monica retorted, amused. "But the people like her. They feel safe with Shura hunting nearby."

Strax stood up, leaving his cup on the table. He walked to the window and leaned against the sill, observing the activity outside. From above, he could see the newly opened market: colorful stalls, children running, the smell of bread and smoke. Further on, the scaffolding of the new buildings rose like wooden arms trying to touch the sky.

"It's good to see Asgard like this. Alive," he murmured, more to himself. "I still remember when all of this was just ash and dust."

Monica watched him silently. There was something about Strax that others didn't see—that heavy, distant look, of someone who carried more than just power. The city was being reborn quickly, but he still seemed to be fighting the ghosts of the ruin they had left behind.

"People are starting to believe, Strax," she said, finally. "The city is already more than a promise. It's becoming a home."

He nodded, without taking his eyes off the horizon. "Home..." he repeated, as if testing the sound of the word. "Yes. Maybe that's it."

"You built this," she said firmly. "Even with all the monsters, wars, and betrayals, it's still standing."

"'We' built it," he corrected, glancing at her. "You, Shura, Kali, Xyn... Each one does what I can't. I just keep the gears turning."

Monica gave a slight smile. "And if it stops?"

"Then I'll push it with my fist," Strax replied, his tone returning to its usual self. "It's the only way the world understands."

The wind blew through the curtains, bringing the smell of the forge mixed with the distant aroma of the kitchens. Strax took a deep breath, as if absorbing the moment before having to return to the daily war.

"Keep the reports updated," he said, returning to the table. "I want to know how much we're profiting from the furs and the meat trade. And have the security reinforced on the routes that Shura uses. I don't want anyone trying to be too clever and ending up as tiger dinner."

"Understood." Monica made a small note on her clipboard. "And what about her? Do you want me to summon her to the next council meeting?"

"No." Strax shook his head. "Let her hunt. She's more useful in the jungle than tied to a desk."

Monica nodded, gathered the papers, and started towards the door. Before leaving, however, she glanced briefly over her shoulder.

"You trust her, don't you?"

Strax hesitated for a moment, his fingers drumming on the table. Then he replied:

"I trust her enough to sleep soundly while she patrols the walls." A small smile formed on his lips. "And that's more than I can say about half the men I have here."

Monica smiled too—a rare occurrence—and left, closing the door softly.

The office fell silent again. Strax stood there for a few moments, observing the map spread out on the table. Small circles marked Shura's hunting routes, the trading posts, the new districts. Everything was growing.

The silence in Strax's office was almost comforting. The distant sound of the forges still echoed, but inside there was only the soft crackling of the candle in the corner of the table and the faint creaking of the wood as the wind passed through the cracks.

He stood there for a moment, with his back to the door, observing the city through the window. The sun was already beginning to set, painting Asgard with orange and golden hues. It was a beautiful sight—a living city, growing, breathing, reborn from the ashes.

Strax rested his hands on the windowsill and closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath.

Peace, however, rarely lasted.

A soft, almost imperceptible sound cut through the air: the rhythmic beating of wings.

He opened his eyes and looked to the side. On the other side of the window, perched on the edge of the balcony, an eagle was watching him. The animal was imposing, larger than a common one—its feathers blended shades of ivory and bluish-gray, and around its body an ethereal glow pulsed as if tiny sparks of magic escaped between the plumes.

The bird's golden eyes stared at him with an intelligence that did not belong to a simple animal.

Strax raised an eyebrow and gave a small, weary smile.

"A messenger again, is it?" he murmured, approaching. "It's been a while since Rogue sent me one of these winged toys."

The eagle tilted its head slightly, as if it understood. Then, it raised one of its talons, revealing a small roll of parchment tied with a red ribbon.

Strax held out his hand, and the animal, obediently, allowed him to take the message. As soon as he did, the eagle flapped its wings once, scattering a light magical wind through the office, and took flight—disappearing into the twilight sky.

The note was short, written in Rogue's quick and elegant handwriting—a firm but slanted script, typical of someone who is always in a hurry.

He untied the seal and read it silently.

"Husband, it seems some nosy people are prowling the streets asking about you.

They're looking for information about the 'new lord of Kaelthur,' but they have no idea what they're getting themselves into.

They're hunting for clues, bribing informants, trying to buy secrets.

The funny part?

All the information channels in the region already belong to Yennifer and Cristine.

They're digging in the wrong place."

Strax chuckled softly, leaning against the table.

"They think they're the hunters, but they're the hunted.

Yennifer is having fun spying on them, and Cristine has already put two of those idiots to work without them even realizing it.

But there's more—one of these organizations wants to contact you.

Something about a 'strategic partnership.'

I'd say it's a trap, but as always, you decide who you want to play with.

I await your reply. — Rogue."

Strax finished reading and placed the paper on the table. The smile on his face was slight, but there was something predatory about it—the kind of expression he made when a part of the game started to get interesting.

"There's always someone trying to find a shortcut to hell..." he murmured, running his finger over the seal on the letter. "And they always end up knocking on my door."

He moved away from the table and went to the corner of the office, where an older map hung on the wall. There, small red and black markings indicated dominated regions, trade routes, strategic positions—and the names of groups and guilds that, over time, had tried to approach him with 'friendly' intentions.

"Strategic partnership..." he repeated, ironizing the words. "That usually means 'we want to use your power until you die'."

He stood for a while observing the map, his mind racing with possibilities. The truth was that Asgard was growing too fast. With trade flourishing and defenses being rebuilt, the city's name was beginning to circulate in neighboring kingdoms. And where there was prosperity, there was interest. The problem was that too much interest, coming from the wrong people, could destroy everything before he managed to consolidate what he was building.

Strax walked to the window again, looking at the horizon—the sun was already beginning to set behind the mountains, and the torches in the streets were beginning to be lit.

He spoke softly, as if talking to someone invisible:

"Rogue... you always appear when the board starts to change."

A slight metallic sound echoed as he pulled the dagger from his waist and began to twirl it between his fingers, thoughtfully.

Yennifer and Cristine were handling the information well—he trusted them in that. One was the shadow that no one noticed, the other, the manipulator who made everyone believe they were acting of their own free will. If they said everything was under control, it probably was.

But there was something in that letter that made him frown: "an organization wants to make contact."

He remembered all the previous attempts. Merchants trying to buy exclusive routes. Nobles offering armies in exchange for influence. Religious leaders trying to "bless" the rebirth of Asgard in the name of their dead gods.

Everyone wanted a piece.

And now, another one.

Strax walked to his desk and sat down again, resting his elbows on the tabletop. He picked up a quill pen, dipped it in ink, and began to write a short reply—the kind of message that Rogue would know how to decipher between the lines.

"Received.

If they want to talk, let them come to me.

But tell Yennifer to observe first, and Cristine to test what they really want.

No agreement should be made before I see their faces. — S."

He folded the note and sealed it with a small seal. A simple snap of his fingers was enough to activate the magic of the seal—the paper glowed red and disintegrated into ashes, sending the message directly to the eagle's origin. He leaned back in his chair again and looked at the ceiling, letting the silence fill the space.

Life in Asgard was finally beginning to pick up pace, and, as always, the world was already trying to take a bite out of it.

But Strax didn't seem worried. In fact, he seemed... excited.

"Let them come, then," he murmured, a crooked smile forming. "It's time to see who really understands the game."

The distant sound of a woman's laughter echoed in his mind—the memory of Yennifer, mocking her enemies. Then, almost like a whisper, came Cristine's cold voice, speaking about how "information is the sharpest weapon in the world."

Yes. He was well protected.

And if anyone tried to cross the shadows to reach him, all of Asgard would bare its teeth.

Outside, the night wind began to blow. The city slept—but on the walls, among the rooftops and torchlit streets, ravens and watchful eyes were already observing.

Strax closed his eyes for a moment and let out a soft sigh.

"Rogue... you always bring me news that breaks the boredom." He gave a small smile. "I hope this time it's something fun."

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