In the palace's primary chamber—a vast, living sanctum carved from the very dreams of forgotten stars, its walls breathing with subtle constellations and the slow pulse of timeless warmth—Parker and Zhang Ruoyun emerged like twin celestial tides. The room, paradoxically intimate despite its impossible scale, hummed with waiting power.
The guests were already seated—no, positioned, like mythic figures frozen in a moment before cosmic judgment.
Cleopatra reclined with the effortless dominance of a woman whose name was carved into empires and whispered by dying gods. She didn't sit so much as command the air around her, each movement declaring: I was sovereign before your ancestors knew the word.
Beside her, Cassandra teetered on the edge of her seat—shoulders tight, hands twitching slightly—as if the weight of unspoken timelines bore down on her lungs. Her eyes, wild and too knowing, flickered toward Parker like a seer trying to decide which version of him had just entered the room.
