The city wakes beneath a curtain of grey light, and the sky hangs heavy—like it knows what's coming.
From the upper floor of Vermillion Tower, I watch the media arrive in tightly coordinated chaos. Security blocks off the entrance as the first wave of black SUVs unloads camera crews. Some reporters arrive in heels, others in combat boots, but all of them wear the same expression—hungry.
They think they've come to witness a shift in power.
They don't realize they're standing in the jaws of it.
Celeste stands behind me, straightening the collar of my cape. I watch her reflection in the glass as she brushes invisible lint from my shoulder. Her hands are steady, her eyes sharp.
"They're already talking," she murmurs. "Speculating. Theories are flying."
"Let them burn their breath," I say. "None of them are ready."
She smiles faintly. "They never are."
