The Great Hall, a moment ago a theater of approaching slaughter, fell into a silence so absolute it felt as if the world had collectively held its breath. The clatter of Northern glass-blades and the roar of Western fire died instantly as the heavy ironwood doors groaned open for the second time.
Damon stepped into the light. He was no longer the stoic "Shield of the Sun." His face was pale, his armor smeared with a terrifying, brilliant crimson. In his arms, he carried a woman who looked less like a Goddess and more like a broken porcelain doll. Vera's head hung back, her copper hair trailing against the obsidian floor, and from her eyes, two dried trails of dark blood marked her translucent cheeks.
Kassian was off his throne before his mind could even process the movement. A guttural, wounded sound escaped his throat—a noise that no Emperor should ever make. He reached them in a blurred motion, his hands hovering over her, shaking with a violent, incandescent terror.
