The echoes of the disastrous banquet still vibrated through the palace walls, but the air at the New Meridian Guild Headquarters was thick with a different kind of electricity. While King Alaric nursed his wounded pride and trembling hands in the upper chambers, the true heartbeat of Astraia had migrated to this sprawling complex of stone and iron. The scent of fresh ink, expensive vellum, and the faint, metallic tang of industrial grease permeated the air. Outside the wide windows, the sounds of progress were relentless; the rhythmic clanging of hammers from the nearby foundries and the shouts of laborers unloading crates of raw ore created a symphony of burgeoning ambition.
Constantine stood by a massive mahogany table, his silhouette framed by the midday sun. He had shed his royal cere
