The throne room had never felt colder. Even when snow from the northern ridge drifted in through the stone windows, or when the ancestral spirits swept through, leaving a chill behind, it had never gotten this cold.
This cold was deeper. Heavier. The kind that crawled inside Keila's bones and whispered lies she was beginning to believe.
The marble beneath her bare feet pulsed with the unease of Aloria. Even the magic that held the forest sacred trembled.
Outside, she heard it. Panic blooming like fire across the outer courtyards. Whispers of dragons. Of wings blotting out the sun. Of dragon riders emerging from between the trees like omens.
