The shock that rippled through Duke Gwendolyn's existence was the fundamental dismantling of everything she thought she understood about power, progression, and possibility!
She rose from her throne, her form trembling with emotions that Duke-level existence rarely permitted to surface.
"How has she regained all her power and even exceeded it to become a Duke!?"
The words tore from her with the raw force of disbelief colliding with undeniable reality.
Her eyes remained fixed on Sigrid, drinking in every detail as if careful observation might reveal this to be some elaborate illusion, some trick of perception that would dissolve under sufficient scrutiny.
But Sigrid stood there in terrible, beautiful reality.
She was adorned in a dress that seemed to have been woven from possibility itself…white fabric that was inscribed with runes of green-gold leaves that spoke of ordered harvest.
