The lower gardens of the Obsidian Spire had always been separate from the main halls. Black roses opened only at false twilight.
Silver fountains sent thin streams upward in slow arcs that never splashed—only sang in low, constant notes. Paths of polished obsidian reflected stars during the day and stayed cool underfoot at night. No guards stood at the entrances. No chains dragged across the stone.
For the first time in months the women walked those paths without chains pulling behind them.
The silver threads still circled wrists and throats, but they had gone quiet—cool to the touch, silent, almost decorative. No pulse of pain. No forced gratitude. Only the faint reminder that something powerful still watched.
Aiden had not appeared since Isolde's first decrees.
He had walked through the shadowed archway after the naming ceremony and not returned. The great hall felt larger without him, lighter, yet somehow heavier with anticipation.
