The morning light that filtered through the jagged holes in the throne room roof felt clinical, exposing the ruin of the capital in sharp, unflattering detail. Malphas remained seated on the dais, though the obsidian throne was nothing more than a pile of jagged shrapnel beneath him. He pulled a woolen cloak over his shoulders, the fabric scratching against his skin, a sensation he found strangely grounding.
"The soldiers have retreated to the outer perimeter," Lyra said, stepping over a fractured marble pillar. She held two tin mugs of hot, bitter tea, their steam rising to meet the dust motes dancing in the air.
"They are not waiting for orders," Malphas noted, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the city’s defensive walls were scorched black. "They are waiting for Valerius to return.
