Refuge for the Dethroned, Glory for the Named (4)

The cold of the underground sanctum clung stubbornly to the air, thick and unmoving like the breath of a place long abandoned. Lyan's first step off the stair – a muffled click of boot leather on polished basalt – sent a slow echo into the curved ceiling and back again. Dust motes drifted through the lamplight in lazy spirals, each one catching a brief glimmer before vanishing into gloom, and his muscles tightened in instinctive readiness. Nothing stirred except the hearth's weak orange coal and the soft rustle of cloaks.

The queen sat on a long stone bench that had once held sacramental scrolls; now it bore only her weight and the heavy grey cloak that disguised crimson silk. She met Lyan's gaze with calm dignity, but the tired crease between her brows betrayed a night without sleep. Shadows framed her cheekbones, giving her the fragile look of a woman carved from winter branches rather than crowned marble. Still, her spine never bent.