The grand doors of the Rothelney throne hall groaned open with weight and finality. Two guards shoved Matthew and El forward, their arms bound, their faces pale from exhaustion and dread.
Ahead of them, a vast staircase rose like the mouth of a canyon wide enough to host a ball, flanked by towering marble columns carved with sea serpents and storm gods. At the top, set upon a double dais of jade-veined stone, twin thrones sat beneath the glow of emerald light filtering from a stained-glass dome.
On one of them sat the Queen.
She was robed in a flowing emerald gown, threads glimmering like spun gemstones, every motion catching the light like rippling water. Yet no brilliance could mask the haunting hollowness in her eyes—eyes that once commanded empires, now sunken, sleepless, devouring hope instead of radiating it.
All soldiers in the hall dropped to their knees.
The captain followed, head bowed. "My Queen," he said shakily, "we present the acquaintances of the fugitive, Leo."
