When the final flames dimmed and the crowds began to scatter, the Emperor of Nevareth returned to his borrowed chambers high within the west wing of the palace. The halls were still humming with laughter, guards half-drunk on fire-wine, torches swaying like living hearts.
Yet Soren felt none of it.
He dismissed his attendants with a wave and stepped onto the balcony. Below, Solmire glittered... rivers of torchlight winding through the rings, the air trembling with song. Beautiful. Unreal.
He drew a long breath, expecting the heat to comfort him, but it only bit at his throat. The memory still clung, chains, frost, the sound of boots in the dark. He gripped the marble rail until his knuckles blanched.
Why tonight? Why now?
