The grand hall of the High Palace, once a symbol of the unity Gwen had bled to achieve, felt colder than the Void itself. The air was stagnant, heavy with the scent of old parchment, stale incense, and the bitter, metallic tang of brewing treachery. High above, the vaulted ceilings trapped the echoes of shifting feet and hushed whispers, turning the room into a sounding board for dissent.
Gwen stood at the center of the mosaic floor, her feet planted firmly on the crest of the Black Sun. She had traded her battle-worn leathers for a gown of deep obsidian silk, the fabric shimmering like oil on water. Though her body was exhausted and the "electric" hum of the child in her womb continued to vibrate against her spine, she stood with the spine of a conqueror.
