The room was quiet, except for breathing, slow and deliberate, of shadows twisting in the air like wisps of smoke from ancient times. Melucia remained on the black throne, her silver-white hair flowing like liquid starlight down the back of her figure, her hands entwined in the arms of stone.

Walls shone softly with echoes of enchantments—a lingering reminder of dark rituals which had been written into the very marrow of the space.

But tonight, the magic churned.

Halvar stood before her, a ...