The moment stretched, thin and brittle as spun glass. In the opulent, silent antechamber of The Gilded Cage, four figures were frozen in a tableau of shock and impending violence. Two of Malakor's elite guards lay dead on the plush, crimson carpet, their lives extinguished before they could even draw their blades. The leader of the Vipers, a man who moved through the underworld like a phantom, was paralyzed by disbelief, his hand hovering over a concealed dagger. And Lord Malakor, a high-ranking noble and a traitor to the crown, stared at us, his face a mask of aristocratic outrage that was rapidly crumbling into raw, primal fear.
Christina stood beside the grand, obsidian table, the stolen ledger clutched in her hand like a sacred text. Her hood had fallen back in the swiftness of her movement, revealing a face that was pale but illuminated by a fierce, triumphant light. She was no longer a pawn; she was the catalyst.
