Dawn bled through fractured stained-glass windows as Marin Ashveil and Elias Bloodmoor stepped into the obsidian throne hall. Rubble choked the aisles where flickering torches cast fractured light across shattered mosaics. At the far end, Regent Selene—stripped of regalia, eyes hollow—stood before the cracked dais. Beside her knelt Calder, armor dented, gaze averted.
Elias advanced, crimson eyes alight with hard triumph. Marin followed, steel quill at her hip, boots echoing on fractured marble. A hush fell as the shattered remnants of the court assembled from hidden chambers. Generals, nobles, and scholars formed a crescent around the dais, whispers vibrating against the walls.
Selene rose stiffly, shoulders trembling. “Elias… Marin," she intoned, voice brittle. “You have proven the Ash-
