The keep smelled of wet stone and blood. Three days after the Regency of Veins took hold, Clara sat on the cracked throne in the main hall. Cracks ran through the floor like black veins.
Torches flickered low, their light swallowed by the shadows that clung to every corner. Selene perched on a smaller seat beside her, legs dangling, looking no older than five but carrying the stare of something ancient.
Atlas stood to their right, his left arm hidden under a heavy cloak. The shadow limb throbbed constantly now, a deep, gnawing hunger that never quite left. It wanted more. Always more.
"Bring the next one," Clara ordered.
Two guards dragged a man forward. His clothes were torn, face bruised from the work gangs clearing rubble outside. He had spoken against the Regency in the markets yesterday. Clara didn't waste words.
