The city of glass never slept.
Its crystalline spires pierced the heavens, refracting the ghostly light of the false moons into prismatic cascades that shimmered across the silver rivers snaking through the districts. The capital of the Ethereal Empire pulsed with a restless energy, its streets alive with merchants peddling star-forged trinkets, mages weaving spells into the air, and soldiers patrolling with blades that hummed with enchantments. But tonight, the city's radiant glow felt like a funeral pyre, heavy with the weight of impending ruin.
On the highest balcony of the Gilded Citadel, Monarch Therion feasted, oblivious—or willfully ignorant—of the shadow creeping ever closer to his throne. The air was thick with the scent of roasted wyvern, spiced wine, and the faint tang of fear from his trembling servants. Laughter and clinking goblets echoed through the chamber, a hollow celebration of power in a city teetering on the edge of chaos.
