The Obsidian Throne had become a kingdom balanced on the edge of a blade.
Two weeks had passed since the poisoned feast, yet the memory of that night still lingered through the palace like smoke that refused to clear. The great obsidian halls — once filled with the confidence of conquest and the cold elegance of demonic rule — had become suffocating with fear. Every corridor carried whispers. Every shadow hid suspicion.
The nobles no longer trusted one another.
Traditionalist lords gathered behind locked doors, convinced the kingdom had nearly been destroyed by weakness and "hybrid corruption." Reformists moved carefully through the court, terrified that one careless word would end with their execution. Even servants had learned to lower their eyes and speak in murmurs.
No one knew which version of Cairis would appear from one day to the next.
