The throne room of the Empire was not built for warmth.
The ceilings soared above like judgmental gods, cold marble columns stretching endlessly into a void of vaulted shadow. Statues of old monarchs—forgotten names carved in stone—stood like silent jurors along the sides. Their faces had long since been worn smooth by the slow grind of time, but their posture remained immaculate. Regal. Watching.
Elizabeth Orelous Austus—Empress, Exile, Frostborn Flame—stood at the far end of that hall.
And walked.
Each step was deliberate. Each motion coiled in control. The silver edge of her cloak, stitched from the flags of conquered cities, whispered as it swept the stone behind her.
No fanfare greeted her.
No trumpets sang.
But her presence stole the air from every throat.
