The hike to the summit was no longer an ascent into the sacred, but a march toward a desecration. Elara moved with rhythmic efficiency, her lungs burning with the sharp, thin air of the highlands. Behind her, the distant lights of Aethelgard shimmered like embers in the dark, a false peace maintained by a city that was about to invite catastrophe. She could feel the mechanical pulse of the Council of Order's containment unit ahead, a vibration that disturbed the soil and mocked the natural serenity of the peak.
As she cleared the last ridge, the sight made her stomach turn. The ruins were swarming with laborers draped in heavy, reinforced suits designed to dampen arcane radiation. Powerful floodlights cut through the mist, illuminating the site where the throne had once anchored reality.
