The mechanisms of the Imperial gates did not glide; they fought. For the first time since the Syvrak had clawed its way through the city's foundations, the great iron slabs groaned against the stone, a sound of tectonic industry that echoed across the desolate square. They did not stop at a ceremonial sliver. They swung wide, exposing the throat of the palace to the city it ruled.
Behind the threshold, the outer courtyard had been transformed. Under the meticulous, if harried, direction of the remaining stewards, long wooden tables had been arranged in orderly rows. They were laden with the heavy scent of fresh bread, crates of preserved meats, barrels of clean water, and bundles of linen for bandages.
The backdrop, however, was not one of comfort. Eris had forbidden the servants from hanging banners to hide the damage.
Behind the distribution point, the palace walls stood fractured, great zigzagging fissures climbing the marble like black lightning.
