The silence that followed the departure of the Council members was heavier than the darkness itself. The Great Council Chamber, once a theater of global politics, had transformed into something far more claustrophobic—a private chapel of obsession. The scent of the other Sovereigns was fading, replaced by the suffocating, sentimental aroma of Kaelen's scorched-earth aura and Dorian's cold, Roman ozone. And cutting through it all was the nectar-sweet fragrance of my own blood, amplified by the Resonance that hummed beneath my skin like a trapped sun.
Kaelen didn't move from his obsidian throne. He remained a silhouette of lethal grace, his hands gripping the armrests so hard the stone began to spiderweb. His gaze was fixed on Dorian Valerius, who stood ten feet away, motionless as a marble statue.
