The next morning, as with the beginning of every day, I had settled into the suspended dining room.
The table was still warm, infused with the gentle heat of the night. The servants moved in the background, invisible and precise, embodying that discreet rigor that characterized the household.
Outside, the Ember Garden was slowly waking beneath the golden glow of a volcanic sky, heavy with long shadows and amber dust.
A morning like so many others, on the surface.
I was waiting for the ritual delivery. And it finally arrived.
A steward in dark livery placed before me an object protected by several discreet seals: the monthly journal.
But not just any. The Obsidian Messenger.
The most prestigious — and most feared — publication of the demonic continent.
Distributed to the four corners of the world, even beyond the dark seas, into forbidden enclaves where even the living fear to speak its name.
