The high-velocity passion of the Solarium Garden and the raw, tactile intimacy of the Royal Stables felt like a distant dream as Vera stood in the center of the Chamber of Obsidian. The air here was not thick with the scent of hay or glowing lilies; it was thick, smelling of old parchment, cold incense, and the suffocating weight of centuries-old tradition.
Seated in a semi-circle before her were the Heads of the Seven Great Houses of the West. They were the "Old Blood"—families whose lineages stretched back to the first sparks of the Sun-curse, men and women who viewed the throne not as a seat of leadership, but as a family heirloom that had been temporarily misplaced in the hands of a "Red Tyrant."
Lord Malakor, a man whose skin looked like weathered vellum and whose eyes were two chips of flint, stood as their spokesperson. He clutched a heavy, iron-bound tome—the Codex of the Eternal West.
