The rooftop was cold, kissed with early morning frost, the wind curling between spires and stone towers as if reluctant to greet the sun. The capital—Arcania—lay sprawled below in a web of domes and arches, silvered by dawnlight. Even from this distant rooftop, the city buzzed faintly, its breath steady, its pace eternal.
Elara stood at the edge, her cloak rippling around her like a banner of shadowed ice. She hadn't spoken in minutes.
Behind her, Eveline's silhouette remained still, hat tilted low, her arms folded as she looked down at Arcania with a familiar, unmistakable expression.
Scorn.
"The outside changed," Eveline murmured, voice just loud enough to cut through the rising wind. "But the inside? Still the same gilded rot wrapped in prettier robes."
Elara turned her head, just slightly, and caught the subtle twist of her master's lips. Not quite a frown. Not quite a sneer. Something deeper, older, carried in that glance toward the city's heart.
