Elysia had seen war before on the fringes of her father's kingdom, in the shadowed decisions of treaties and broken alliances.
She had seen its aftermath in villages burned to ash, in the hollow eyes of survivors. But this...this was different.
This was war in its rawest, most brutal form.
The moment they stepped into the corridor leading toward the throne room, the palace no longer felt like home or sanctuary it felt like a battlefield carved from nightmares.
The walls trembled from distant detonations, and somewhere above them, stone crumbled like brittle parchment.
Blood pooled along the cracks in the floor, slick and gleaming under the guttering light of enchanted torches. The scent was overwhelming smoke, sweat, metal, and the sharp, unmistakable tang of fresh death.
It coated the back of Elysia's throat, thick as ash, and her stomach churned violently with each breath she took. She pressed a hand to her mouth, trying not to gag.
Malvoria noticed. Of course she did.
