The capital's veins pulsed with noise.
While Karl climbed the palace steps, drawing the roar of the crowd and the fire of his father's gaze, another current ran beneath the mountain.
Lucian and Lucy moved through it.
They had slipped from the tavern hours before, cloaks low, steps steady. The city above might have been drowning in whispers of dragons and traitors, but down here the air was colder, heavy with the hum of wards and the churn of soldiers moving to their posts.
The eastern quarter was no marketplace. It was a fortress carved into the mountain's ribs. Armories stood shoulder to shoulder, blacksteel doors sealed with runes that glowed faint crimson. Barracks sprawled in rows, their walls scarred from years of drilling. At the center rose the ward channel—an obelisk of obsidian taller than any tower, veins of molten light crawling across its surface. It thrummed with each beat, carrying power up through the mountain to the palace itself.
