The middle of Iron-Peak was a jagged plateau of limestone and hardy pines, a place where the wind whistled through the needles like a choir of ghosts. From this height, the world below looked insignificant, a miniature map of petty ambitions. The Minister's mansion, with all its snakes and gilded cages, was nothing more than a speck of dust in a vast green valley.
Evelina stood at the edge, her breath hitching in her throat. Her lungs burned—a physical reminder that despite the 1000-year-old ginseng and her tactical mind, she was still inhabiting a body that had been neglected for nearly two decades. The "vibration" in her veins had cooled into a dull ache.
