The Sky Hall, once a place of celebration for Dalma victories and noble alliances, now pulsed with uneasy silence. It was grand, gleaming, and suffocating.
Polished obsidian floors reflected the warm flicker of chandeliers. Velvet-draped walls shimmered with gold trim. The guests—nobles, envoys, and ancient family heirs—were dressed in their finest robes and garments. Gem-studded cloaks, enchanted brooches, embroidered silks. But no one smiled. There was no music. No dancing.
Only whispers. Anxious. Frantic.
"What's going on?"
"Is this… a declaration?"
"How is this even possible ?…"
They gathered at the floor-length windows lining the eastern wall.
Outside, chaos ruled the night.
Iskar City and the Dalma mansion burned.
Once-sturdy stone towers crumbled. Firelight flickered from fallen buildings and shattered walls. Streets caved in under invisible pressure, flames licking at the ruins.
And above it all—a gaping wound in the sky.
