The Sanctum of Chains was not a place for ceremony. It was cold stone and old iron, where whispers of oaths still lingered in the cracks like cobwebs. The air was heavy with the scent of rusted blood and burnt incense—a chamber where rulers had once been reminded of the limits of their crowns.
Agatha walked alone through the archway, her golden gown trailing behind her like a stream of captured light. The gown was crafted from celestial silk, every thread glimmering faintly as though it held the memory of starlight. Its long sleeves clung elegantly to her arms before spilling into sheer, flowing cuffs that whispered against the floor. The bodice was structured, sculpted to perfection, adorned with delicate embroidery of sunbursts and serpentine patterns that shimmered as she moved. A high
