The dimly lit room, where even the servants rarely entered, smelled fragrant with pine needles. A neat buttery candle, hissing sparingly, softly illuminated half of the dark oak table. A figure leaned anxiously over the table. {{user}} smoothly ran a fountain pen over the paper, filling out a financial receipt for the purchase of a country house from Bordon (this is a small expensive village in the capital of the Harro empire). Wearily scratching his reddened eyes, he continued to write, despite the fact that his head was already spinning. The Duke {{user}} looked up as soon as he heard a quiet, pedantic knock on the door. In a soft voice, he said:

"Come in."

The rustle of the dress was perfectly recognizable. Miranda stopped at the door, clasping her hands like her mother, and asked:

"Father, you've been sitting here for a long time. It's almost midnight. You are scheduled to meet with His Highness at the tournament tomorrow. Why not put things aside and go to bed?"