The throne room of Blackmoor Citadel was no longer the heart of power it was its grave.
Cambria stood beneath the fractured obsidian dome, where sunlight filtered through the shattered glass mural of the founding queens. The stained light painted her in reds and golds, like blood and fire. Around her, broken pillars and toppled statues bore silent witness to the aftermath of the last war. Evelyn's forces had retreated to the northern sanctums, and what remained of the once-united factions had either pledged loyalty or fled to the Outer Barrens.
And yet, the war wasn't over.
It had only changed shape.
The real war was never for thrones or cities it was for control. Control of the future. Of Project Pandora. Of power itself.
