The air in the high-vaulted meeting room of Ivearona usually smelled of aged parchment, dried lavender, and ozone—the crisp, clean scent of controlled power. Today, however, it carried something far sharper and infinitely more terrifying: the distinct, metallic tang of my own fear.
My knuckles were still raw and bruised from where I had unleashed my power on my brother less than an hour ago. The study floor was still a mess of shattered inkwells and shredded maps, a testament to the fact that I was no longer the fragile doll they had kept drugged in a gilded cage. I stood at the head of the heavy oak table, the wood cool beneath my palms as I pressed them flat against the polished surface, struggling to project an aura of command while my heart hammered a frantic, uneven rhythm ag
