Sophia didn’t need titles to command a room. She was one of those women whose silence did more thunder than most of the voices. She did not march or make a show, when she joined the council chamber of the Redwood, that morning, it wasn’t with pomp or procession. But the room quieted anyway.
It was the way her footsteps echoed—not loud, but precise. The way she took her seat without glancing at anyone, yet every glance shifted toward her. A natural pull, like the tide responding to the moon. Sophia had become gravity.
Streams of golden morning sunlight came in through the arch windows and threaded across maps and scrolls, and flashed on the relics of ancient steelwork. The edges of Sophia Silver cuffs and her dark velvet garments glowed with hushed obeisance. She wore no crown, no crest.
