The one intact hall in the north wing did not feel like a place of government; it felt like a bunker.
The air was thick with the smell of wet soot and the metallic tang of blood, a sensory reminder of the carnage outside that no amount of scrubbing could erase.
Massive maps of the empire, some singed at the edges, were spread across heavy oak tables salvaged from the debris.
The opulent gold leaf of the ceiling was cracked, and the flickering candlelight cast long, jagged shadows against the walls.
They were an assembly of survivors.
Soren stood at the head of the map, the divine light of Aenithra having retreated to the marrow of his bones, leaving him looking human, though weary in a way that aged him a decade.
Beside him, Eris sat on a high-backed chair, her posture rigid. She had been attended to by healers, her shoulder bandaged, her ribs bound but the faint, golden seepage of the cracks on her seal remained, a silent ticking clock.
