Eli inhaled slowly, tasting the cold night—smoke from distant forges, the faint tang of blood from training grounds, the distant howl of a patrol. It was the scent of preparation, of pieces sliding into place. She didn't close her eyes to rest. There was no rest for her anymore. Not after surviving the Dark Continent. Not after relinquishing flesh for steel. The Empire had found its pulse again, and Eli was its heartbeat.
"Boy!" she called into the corridors beyond. Her voice cut through the stone stillness.
The mage appeared—tall, composed, with eyes like molten gold beneath dark colored hair. He carried a pourer of crimson wine as though it were an extension of his will. The wine spilled over soft ivory glass, the liquid catching the moonlight in gentle arcs.
"Come here," she commanded, and he obeyed, stepping forward so close she could feel the warmth of his confidence—even now, his calm unsettled her.
