They reached the palace gates, which were now covered in a layer of translucent, golden moss that hissed when touched. The "Council of the People" had set up a perimeter, but even the bravest soldiers refused to step onto the palace grounds. The building was literally breathing, the windows exhaling a thick, amber mist that tasted of old blood and honey.
Livius, Aethelgard, Cian, and Raven stood at the threshold.
"I have to go down there," Livius said, looking at the team he had built from the shadows. "If the throne completes its 'Digestion,' the capital will become a tomb. Aethelgard, you lead the Silver survivors in a 'Suppression Song.' Try to slow the palace's heartbeat. Cian, Raven... stay with the Council. If the Federation arrives while I'm underground, tell them the King is... busy."
"Livius," Cian said, grabbing his friend's arm. "Vaelin's records said the Zenith is a place of 'Absolute Truth.' Don't let the fire trick you. Remember who you were when you had nothing."
Livius nodded, his eyes glowing with a unified, celestial light. He turned and walked into the breathing palace.
The interior was a nightmare. The hallways were no longer corridors; they were throat-like passages of pulsing muscle and gold-flecked bone. The portraits of the old kings had been absorbed into the walls, their painted faces twisted into expressions of eternal agony. Livius didn't use a sword. He walked with his hands open, his Silver mana creating a bubble of silence that pushed back the wet, rhythmic thumping of the walls.
He reached the North Wing—the place of his childhood. Here, the corruption was the thinnest. The small, dusty room where he had lived for seventeen years was the only place that remained untouched by the Golden veins. In the center of the room, standing where his mother had supposedly died, was a shimmering curtain of moonlight.
The Veil of Elara.
"Mother," Livius whispered.
He stepped through the veil.
The transition was instantaneous. The wet, pulsing heat of the palace vanished, replaced by an infinite, echoing cold. He was standing on a platform of cracked glass, suspended over a swirling vortex of golden fire and silver frost. At the very bottom of the vortex, pinned by four massive, black-iron chains, was a creature of such terrifying beauty that Livius's soul felt like it was being pulled apart.
It was the Dragon God.
But it wasn't a god. It was a prisoner. Its wings were shredded, its scales dull and scarred. And sitting on its chest, like a parasite on a host, was the true "Foundation" of the Argentine Empire—a replica of the Golden Throne, made of the Dragon God's own heart-stone.