The throne of Submareth was carved from living coral, its pale arms curling upward like the fingers of some drowned god.
Upon it lounged Thalassaria, Queen of the Deep, her body glimmering with the teal glow of leylines that traced every curve like constellations on ivory skin.
Before her, the scrying pool shimmered with visions not of her own dominion but of the lands above, the blackened fields of the Ashlands, the endless lines of trenches, and the thunder of cannons that shook Emberhold to its foundations.
She watched it all with rapt fascination.
Each volley of Caedrion's guns tore through Ignarion's proud defenses, and with every eruption of fire and steel, Thalassaria's lips curved into a smile.
Her courtiers stood in silence around the chamber, too wary to speak as the queen's laughter, low and melodious, rippled like a siren song through the hall.
