The throne room was still cloaked in shadows when it happened.
Sylvithra stood stiffly near the tall, wide windows, gazing bleakly at the sprawling landscape below, the vast territories of Velmoria barely touched by the pale fingers of dawn. Her heart ached fiercely, a constant dull pain, an empty void that could only be filled by the safe return of Elyzara.
Verania paced restlessly behind her, her footsteps echoing sharply against the marble floors, golden eyes glittering fiercely with barely restrained fury. The grandparents powerful, dignified figures who had conquered kingdoms and toppled empires stood solemnly nearby, expressions grimly contemplative as they discussed potential strategies.
The silence stretched, oppressive and heavy, broken only by the faint sound of Verania's agitated pacing. Then, suddenly, Sylvithra felt it a sharp, bright spark in the darkness, a familiar pulse of power bursting vividly into existence.
