The Grand Atrium of Sterling Tower no longer resembled a corporate fortress. The high-altitude winds of Aethelgard whistled through the jagged gaps where reinforced glass had shattered during the collapse, bringing with them the scent of damp earth and blooming jasmine from the parks below. In the center of the room, the broken mahogany boardroom table had been replaced by a circular slab of raw, unpolished obsidian. It was a table without a head, a dark mirror reflecting the bruised purple sky of a city that had forgotten how to sleep.
Astra stood by the perimeter, her fingers tracing the silver scars on her right arm. She wore a simple charcoal tunic, the fabric functional and unadorned, a silent bridge between her life as a scavenger and her reality as a Queen. The silver crescent on h
