The hall trembled with whispered commotion as the Countess of Saxon stepped forward, her presence a blade cutting through the stagnant air.
Every pair of eyes turned, and even the banners above seemed to lean, drawn toward her like obedient shadows.
Emerald silk clung to her as if spun from forest fire and dawnlight, the faint sheen catching each flicker of the torch flames. Beneath that poise lived the memory of wounds—concealed, not erased. She bore herself as one who had already faced ruin and refused to bow before it.
Each step echoed with defiance. The ancient stones beneath her feet seemed to remember the tread of queens and betrayers, saints and executioners. They would remember her, too.
The Blood Commander's eyes narrowed, a hawk sighting a storm on the horizon. For all his armor and authority, something in him recoiled—a flicker of unease, the faint, primitive knowledge that the tide of power was shifting, and he stood in its way.
