The royal carriage moved through the obsidian streets of Pyronis like a golden ghost. Its wheels, forged from enchanted sunstone, made no sound against the polished volcanic rock, creating an unnerving silence broken only by the distant, rhythmic clang of the Great Forge and the low, rumbling snores of the dragons sleeping atop the city's crystalline towers.
Inside, the air was thick with a tension that could be cut with a blade. I sat opposite Christina, the carriage's interior lavishly appointed with crimson silks and cushions stuffed with the down of some rare, unfortunate bird. The space felt both intimate and isolating, a gilded cage rolling through a city of predators.
