The Central Bank of Astraia was a structure of cold, imposing granite that stood as a silent witness to the kingdom’s waning prosperity. Inside its deep vaults, the air was stagnant, carrying the metallic tang of aged copper and the musty scent of damp parchment. Low-burning torches flickered against the damp stone walls, casting long, dancing shadows that stretched across the heavy iron doors of the primary reserves. Elena moved through the subterranean corridors with a grace that masked her inner trepidation. She wore a dress of dark, muted wool, her footsteps echoing sharply against the floorboards. In her hands, she clutched a leather-bound ledger embossed with the royal seal—a document that today carried the weight of a bloodless revolution.
Constantine stood waiting for her in the c
