[past]
The courtyard burns beneath her feet, and Saya inhales the smoke like perfume.
War screams tear through the night—human, corrupted, dying, praying. The scent of iron and fire saturates the air, but to her it is a symphony so sweet it borders on intoxicating. Flames reflect in her eyes, turning them darker, deeper, bottomless.
In the shattered corridor behind her, Rue Yim is still trembling from power she does not yet understand. A child tapping on the lid of a sleeping volcano.
Saya smiles to herself.
Soon.
But first—she looks at the carnage, at the palace crumbling under the weight of her ten-year-long orchestration—and decides to enjoy this moment. She has waited far too long to rush the ending.
She steps over the body of a fallen guard, not bothering to glance down. A flick of her foot sends a broken spear rolling aside.
