The capital had not slept for three nights.
From the high solar of the imperial palace, the empress stood before the towering crystal windows, her Golden eyes watching the city below writhe under the uneasy glow of lanterns and half-controlled fires.
The fog drifting over the streets caught the orange light and smothered it, making the whole capital seem like a single, trembling ember struggling against suffocation.
Soldiers marched in tense patterns, hurried and disorganized, as if responding to threats that shifted as quickly as rumors. Bells tolled from distant districts—sometimes as warnings, sometimes as calls for aid, sometimes out of sheer confusion.
Every sound from the city below reached the palace as a muted vibration against the glass, each one a reminder that her empire was no longer steady beneath her feet.
She squeaked her white hair, pressing her palm to the cold surface.
The people can sense it, she thought. They sense the throne cracking.
