The throne room pulsed with a life of its own. The obsidian walls seemed to breathe, slow and deliberate, exhaling cold mist and inhaling the thick tension hanging in the air. The bone floor beneath my boots creaked, whispering secrets with every hesitant step I took forward. Above me, the vaulted ceiling disappeared into endless shadows, pierced only by torches burning without flame—cold light that painted the world in shades of sorrow.
And there she sat.
Emberlaith.
Or something wearing her face.
My heart thudded against my ribs in a frantic rhythm. Every survival instinct I possessed screamed for me to turn and run, to shatter the illusions around me, but my body betrayed me. It was like sinking into a dream I couldn't wake from—a nightmare dressed in the soft familiarity of home.
