The skies above the Obsidian Capital had turned an unnatural shade of violet. Lightning cracked in spirals rather than bolts, and the once-quiet winds now howled like wailing spirits. At the heart of the city, where the Royal Palace once stood proud and untouched by war, a new power had erupted.
Valerian stood atop the shattered remains of the obsidian staircase, the black stone beneath him glowing faintly red from residual heat. Around him, the elite royal guards—those who had refused to flee or defect—lay crumpled, their golden armor blackened with soot, pierced by invisible blades. The air itself seemed to shimmer with residual magic, thick enough to taste copper and ash.
"You still breathe?" he muttered, glancing to his left.
