High above the plaza, standing on a balcony made of reinforced sapphire, Arkon watched the scene below.
He didn't look angry. He looked clinical. His hands were clasped behind his back, his teal robes fluttering in the freezing wind. He watched Vera laugh as she tackled the "Red Tyrant" into a drift of white. He watched the way she leaned into Kassian's heat, a natural reflex her mind hadn't yet rationalized. And he watched the snowman she had built—a lumpy, white-haired donkey that stood as a mocking monument to a past he was determined to bury.
A Northern mage, his robes heavy with the scent of ancient parchment and ozone, stepped onto the balcony and knelt. His hands were trembling, clutched around a scroll sealed with the crest of the First Catalyst.
"Your Majesty," the mage whispered, his voice cracking. "The translation is complete. We accessed the deepest strata of the Vault of Souls. We found the records of the Original Fusion."
