The clamor of the coronation festivities had long since evaporated. Iron Hearth had returned to its original rhythm—the steady hum of factory engines, the rumble of trains cutting through the rails, and the black smoke curling lazily from giant chimneys. However, in a corner of the castle's west wing, a new rhythm was being learned with great difficulty. A rhythm that knew no schedule, cared nothing for protocol, and was utterly non-negotiable for anyone.
Oeeeekk! Oeeeeeekkk!
Ana's crying shattered the silence before dawn could even break.
Her voice was high and shrill, piercing through the cold stone walls and echoing along the still-dark corridors. Outside, the snow fell with a slow, poetic motion—but inside the room, the atmosphere was heating up with a panic that was, in truth, entirely unnecessary.
