The throne room felt more like a tomb than a place of power—cold, vast, and unforgiving.
Pale morning light spilled through towering stained-glass windows, breaking into jagged colors on the black marble floor. The silence was deep, broken only by a whisper of wind through the high arches.
And the smell. Incense—sweet at first, but under it, something bitter. Metallic. Blood.
Fray stood alone in the center of the room.
His coat hung off one shoulder, torn and dark with dried blood. One sleeve was missing. His chest rose and fell slowly beneath the crimson-stained fabric.
Shallow cuts lined his cheek. His hands hung at his sides, bruised and swollen. He hadn't cleaned himself. Hadn't spoken since the battle.
At the far end, Iron Dalma sat on the high throne.
Tall, unmoving, dressed in black with silver trim. His face unreadable. Only his eyes were sharp—cold and piercing, fixed on Fray like a blade pressed to the heart.
He finally spoke, voice low and smooth.
