“Paper! Paper! Get yer Faederland! All the news today!”

  The shrill, rhythmic cry rose above the bustling plaza, brimming with vim. Unfettered by the clamor around it, the voice cut through the clatter of hooves on cobblestone and the practiced calls of eager vendors. Even the low, lingering notes of an unseen violin merely served to underscore it, rather than drown it out.

  "Hesse sidelined! Eisenwald signs treaties with Ostegaard! Peace talks to be held in Mon... Monte-Monteargento!"

  He slapped the papers straight and raised his voice again from atop a rickety wooden crate. “Local man spends second day down well—read all about it! Tha’ll be a groschen, sir!"

  The symphony of noises carried across the lively plaza and drifted upward through an open window overlooking it all. It was one of several grand, white windows belonging to an office — modest in size, lavishly adorned, though not excessively so.

  Wainscoting of dark wine ran along the lower walls, chased above by threads of gold that traced the burgundy plaster in graceful patterns. The walls framed the artisanal furniture of mahogany and dark walnut, which gleamed with a deep, red splendor.

  Near the mullioned windows, a great globe commanded attention, its surface detailed with gilded scrollwork, its tumultuous seas painted in muted greens and blues.

  Along the opposite wall, several towering bookcases lined the space, their shelves crowded with volumes, mustered together like ranks of disciplined troops. A smaller table filled the space between them, supporting a marble bust. Its solemn face caught in perpetual contemplation.

  At the room’s heart, a broad desk presided with dignified order. Folders, papers, pens, and a silver inkstand lay neatly arranged, waiting in attendance. Behind it stood an ample office chair, its high, curved back upholstered in deep leather that echoed the warmth of the walls.

  In it sat an industrious man, dressed in an august white uniform.

  Clear, grey eyes oversaw the workings of his black-cuffed pen-hand with an even calm, meticulously aligning the contents of the documents on his left with the contents of the ledger in front of him.

  His long, fitted tunic was held together by a straight line of gold buttons marching up the front, passing a distinguished formation of laureled medals on his left breast and climbing toward a high, stiff collar — crimson-lined and emblazoned with oak leaves.

  A mantle clock punctuated each second in cadence with the faint rasp on paper, both moving as though conducted by the subtle shifts of his prominent, silvered moustache.

  To his left, atop a silver, decadently baroque perch rested his majestic feathered familiar.

  It bore the presence of a large bird — that of a great eagle, perhaps, or a sizable vulture. Its long, prehensile tail coiled around the stand, while its enormous black wings, edged from crown to tip in crimson feathers, folded snugly about the demon.

  A crest of smaller, white-tipped feathers crowned its sanguine head, which it had buried comfortably within its own embrace.

  There it slept, soundly—the whole of it barely stirring, save for the gentle rise and fall of its breast.

  Three loud knocks at the door startled it awake.

  Its icy blue eyes, set within blood-red orbs, snapped toward the sound—gawking, yet unmistakably vexed.

  "Enter." said the man in a clear, understated baritone, without looking up.

  There was a clatter, interspersed with a few muffled dings, before the door opened and a young attendant awkwardly entered the room, balancing a laden tray of silver cutlery and tableware.

  He was a well-kept young man, dressed in proper uniform: a long, flowing dark-blue Waffenrock, which buttoned along the left side, and a pair of matching breeches flared at the thighs, tucked into shiny black boots.

  His hair was short and dark. His demeanor unremarkable, save for the large-rimmed glasses perched on his nose and the expression of thorough, worried concentration as he struggled to steady the load in his hands.

  The demon locked hate-filled eyes with the young attendant.

  Its crown flared, and its golden-hued, jagged beak opened wide. With a warbling shriek, it spread its wings, revealing another pair of claws — arm-like and outstretched, as though reaching to grab the boy by his throat.

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  The aide gasped and jerked backwards, nearly sending his precariously balanced burden flying. He managed, deftly, and to his own surprise, to steady it and shakily exhaled in relief.

  "Enough, Friedrich." The elderly man waved his familiar off with a blasé gesture and continued writing.

  Friedrich relaxed, but did not lift his disdainful gaze from the boy. It folded its wings and drew itself upright into a regal posture, haughtily regarding the gawking irritant before it.

  With small, timid steps, and an eye on his tormentor, the attendant approached the bureau and set the tray down with a conclusive clink.

  "Sir. Your meal. Poached eggs with buttered rolls, like you ordered, sir. And some coffee."

  He shuffled the tableware, saucepan, and coffeepot into place, then stood at attention before the desk, his eyes constantly flicking sideways to Friedrich, whose lingering stare seemed to burn against the side of his head.

  "Sir."

  His superior finally lifted his head from the ledger, his eyes following suit with a measured delay. He smiled warmly.

  "Thank you, my boy." His focus fell back to the work in front of him. "Unfortunately, no time for a meal, as circumstances require us elsewhere."

  With a flourish, he finished the final entry and closed the ledger, placing the pen carefully atop it. "I will, however, enjoy a cup of coffee before we go."

  He reached for the delicate porcelain cup and saucer and set them beside the tray, inviting the aide to pour with a gesture.

  The boy eagerly obliged. As he did, the man pushed his ample office chair back and rose, running his fingers through his curly, silver-streaked hair.

  He loomed at least a head above his daunted attendant, who fumbled as he passed him his coffee.

  "Sir."

  The man took the cup in his steady hands with practiced ease, nodding in gratitude.

  The young aide cleared his throat. “I’ve also to report, sir. The preparations for your fiftieth anniversary are well underway.” He stated in an official, professional tone.

  His superior paused, then let out a slow, measured sigh. A regretful smile briefly graced his broad features.

  "Ah. Yes. That, too, is on the agenda, I suppose..."

  The youth's brow furrowed at the hint of melancholy in his voice. “Sir?”

  The man in white lifted his gaze from the cup and regarded him affectionately. “Pay me no mind, lad.” His attention returned to his drink. “I’ve little patience for festivities — and it lessens the more I wither.” He took a sip of the pleasantly strong coffee, then brushed off his moustache with a knuckle. “What of the treasury wagon?”

  “It has been allocated by the mayor for your personal use, sir. The silver bullion, the antiques and your painting collection are being loaded as we speak.”

  “Good. Very good. Only the sensitive documents remain then.” Between long, methodical sips, he swirled the rich, dark liquid, studying the contained whirlpool. “I want you to retrieve the covert mobilization proposal and the Ostegaard border deployment plan from the stack on my desk. And the staff memorandum on top as well.”

  The young soldier nodded and wasted no time, sorting ably through the sizable pile. He selected the three documents, tucked them under his arm, and returned to attention.

  "I will take the documents, Ludwig — you will have to carry Friedrich."

  With a sharp inhale, he downed the coffee and set the cup and saucer back upon the tray, before he took the documents from his attendant and placed them under his own arm.

  Ludwig swallowed audibly and glanced to his right.

  The demon-vulture seemed almost devilishly pleased. One might even discern the suggestion of a wicked smile etched into its features.

  Retrieving the white gloves that hung from his belt, the man in white opened the door for his young adjutant and stepped aside. The boy passed through unsteadily, clutching Friedrich’s perch tight to his chest as the demon sat smugly upon it, plainly pleased with the division of labor.

  As they made their way down the long, broad corridor of the Rathaus, they turned a corner, nearly walking straight into two soldiers in the midst of a changing of the guard.

  “Oh, you should’ve been there, mate! We had to carry Boz out with the—”

  The soldiers jolted back at the sudden encounter, nearly falling over one another. The young aide stumbled in turn, almost losing his footing as Friedrich lurched atop the perch, wings and clawed arms flailing in a brief scramble for balance.

  “Ch—Chancellor!” Both guards snapped to attention. “Sir! Our apologies—we were just arriving for our shift!”

  Ludwig managed to plant the metal stand firmly on the floor and exhaled in relief.

  With a sharp whump, one of Friedrich’s heavy wings slapped him across the face. He flinched, blinking over crooked glasses in startled confusion at the demon, which seemed to be winding up for a second strike.

  It shook off the embarrassment, feathers settling as it reclaimed its haughty, regal composure before the troops.

  The Chancellor was calm and unperturbed. Pulling on his gloves with practiced ease, he nodded once.

  “You may stand easy. We were just leaving.”

  One of the guards did the opposite and snapped into a fervent salute. “It’s an honour to have you here, sir! If—if I may say so!”

  The elderly man smiled and straightened, honoring the men a crisp salute of his own. They proudly returned the gesture, earning an approving tilt of Friedrich’s crested head.

  A quick, feathery rap to Ludwig's head followed, prompting the young aide to then follow after their superior, clutching the perch as they moved on to the business at hand.