The transition hall stretched out before Zeven like a cavernous throat of shadow and cold marble. The air was frigid, biting at the exposed skin of his face where the iron mask rested, a permanent weight that felt as cold as the floor beneath his boots. Behind him, the chamber of mirrors lay in ruins, the silver shards reflecting nothing but the darkness of his own choices. He moved cautiously, his senses heightened, his secondary heart beating in a rhythm that echoed the heavy, mechanical thrum of the palace’s own core. Every step was a calculated risk in a place that seemed designed to consume him.
The hall was slick with a thin layer of moisture, the black marble cracked from decades of shifting foundation. Zeven paused near a row of tall, fluted pillars that lined the path toward the
