The news of the Jorailian banquet spread through the Conclave of Five Peaks like a contagion. It was not the boisterous, public feast of an emperor, but a quiet, exclusive gathering of the world's forgotten powers. And that, to the true lions of the continent, was far more dangerous.
In the frozen, opulent heart of the Rimefrost Imperium's pavilion, a structure carved from pure, magical ice that glittered with a cold, internal light, Empress Anastasia Volkov watched the events of the previous night unfold.
Her throne room was a place of breathtaking, sterile beauty. The walls were sheets of polished, ancient ice, the floor a mirror of frozen starlight. She sat upon a throne carved from a single, massive cryo-crystal, her form a vision of eternal, untouchable youth. Her silver-white hair cascaded down her back, and her eyes, the color of a winter sky, held a chilling, pragmatic intelligence.
