KAELUM’S POV
The grand dining hall was entirely unrecognizable from the mausoleum we had breached a month ago. Four weeks of relentless, back-breaking labor had systematically stripped the castle of its ghosts. The heavy, ash-caked tapestries had been replaced by fresh, hand-woven banners bearing the true sovereign crest. The massive oak table—once stained with the spilled wine and dark violet remnants of Morvan’s toxic regime—had been meticulously planed down and scrubbed to its natural, pale grain. Tonight, it smelled of fresh beeswax, roasted winter root vegetables from the lower valley's first cleared gardens, and the crisp pine air flowing freely through the unbarred terrace doors.
I sat back in my high-backed chair, swirling a goblet of blackberry mead between my fingers. For the
