Alpheo sat back in his chair, the afternoon light filtering into the great private tent, spilling over the plain wooden table where the tools of history lay assembled before him. The air was rich with the scent of oiled leather, old paper, and the faint sharpness of sealing wax warming near.
He could have delegated this task to any number of clerks, scribes, or commanders — but he had made sure it was Aron who delivered the documents personally. There were other matters he would soon discuss with the man, but for now, it was time to put an official end to the bloodshed.
In his hands he held the thick, heavy stack of papers: not common parchment, mind you, but paper — his paper, the proud product of his industry.
