The heavy oak doors of the Imperial wing groaned on their hinges, a sound that cut through the expectant hush of the hallway like a physical weight.
Eris emerged. She did not lean on anyone. She did not falter.
She stepped out into the corridor with the same measured, predatory grace that had defined her rule in Solmire, her chin level, her eyes scanning the small assembly of the high nobility.
Waiting for her were the survivors, the dukes and duchesses who had remained through the trial, the emergence, and the chaos.
They were a cluster of silk, fur, and anxiety.
Their postures were telling; they stood like people prepared for a funeral, their faces schooled into expressions of mournful fragility.
They had been told the Empress was dying. They had prepared themselves to offer soft condolences to a ghost.
But word spread fast about her revival and now, they were recalibrating in real-time.
