The city did not sleep.
It waited.
From the highest balcony of the Citadel, Aria watched torchlight ripple through the lower districts like restless fireflies. Messengers rode through the night. Smithies burned hot. Ward towers flared and dimmed as defensive lines were recalibrated.
The Watchers had shown their hand.
Now the realm held its breath.
Behind her, the council chamber doors closed with finality. Damien remained inside with the war council, voices rising and falling in sharp bursts of strategy. Troop placements. Secure routes. Intercept grids.
All necessary.
None of it enough.
Aria closed her eyes.
The Crown beneath the throne pulsed faintly in her awareness, like a second heartbeat beneath the earth. Not violent. Not demanding.
Waiting.
"You're listening to it again."
Damien's voice carried quietly across the stone.
She didn't turn. "It's not loud."
"But it's there."
"Yes."
