The imperial suite was too beautiful to feel alive, but its beauty made Christopher feel even more trapped.
Every surface glowed faintly under the amber chandelier, its cut-crystal tiers catching the last shimmer of daylight spilling through the arched windows. Beyond them, the capital unfolded like a painted mirage, domes and terraces climbing the cliffs, pale smoke rising in the distance. The room itself was an intricate blend of centuries: brocade cushions in deep crimson and gold, polished brass tea sets on carved tables, and woven rugs that muffled every sound, yet beneath the carved wood and embroidered silk, sleek lines of hidden climate vents and discreet sensors whispered of modernity.
