The transition left a metallic taste of static on Elara’s tongue, a lingering ghost of the Spire’s disintegration. She stood on a floor of polished, shifting silver that rippled like water beneath her boots. The air here was sharp, oxygen-rich, and imbued with the heavy, pressurized scent of ancient magic. This was the capital of Draconia, but it was not the ruin they had left behind.
The throne room was a cathedral of impossibilities. Pillars of living light twisted toward a ceiling that displayed the cosmos in real-time, showing stars collapsing and birthing in a slow, rhythmic dance. At the center of the hall, the Sun Throne sat, an architectural monstrosity of gold and solidified shadow.
Julian stood beside her, his breathing heavy. The white-steel armor had vanished, leaving him in
