The freezing isolation of the capital didn't announce itself with the blare of imperial horns or the thunder of a fresh bombardment. It arrived in the dead of winter as a cold, systematic silence.
Elara stood by the high hearth in the palace's upper council chamber, her boots clicking softly against the frost-rimed stone floor. Her charcoal coat was buttoned tight against the bitter drafts that always found a way through the ancient masonry gaps. On the massive oak table behind her, the mechanical telegraph terminal sat entirely still. Its brass gears, usually humming with the frantic pulse of regional trade tallies and northern liquidity reports, were cold. The paper ticker tape hung limp from the feed tray, blank and dry.
