The trek from the kitchens to the Sovereign's private dining sanctum was a journey through a literal and metaphorical purgatory. Every step Hannah took was a battle against the searing, radiating pain in her hips and tailbone where Hebner had thrown her onto the stone. The heavy silver tray in her hands felt like it was weighted with lead, the ornate lids of the serving dishes rattling with the tremors that still wracked her frame.
She limped through the silent, vaulted corridors, the smell of the roasted meats—spiced with the pungent, metallic herbs of Voidmore—clogging her senses. When she reached the massive, black-oak doors of the dining hall, they swung open silently, as if the room itself were exhaling.
