Emery walked in a line of Veryas[1], the captive women from the four tribes. Their ankles were shackled with heavy cold-iron. The march lasted days, taking them through freezing mountain passes and barren plains that smelled of salt and old blood. Her once radiant white hair had become a matted, grey tangle covered in mud. The pale blue silk of her Harvest Gala dress hung in filthy rags, with fine embroidery snagged on brambles and stained by the soot of her burning home.
When they finally reached the Imperial Capital of Eldharûn, the view inspired no wonder. The city was a mass of jagged stone and obsidian, rising from the earth like a sharp tooth. There were no glass walls or open gardens; everything was built for war.
They were herded into the cold, stone courtyard of the Imperial Palace. The ground was slick from a recent rain, and the air smelled of coal smoke and wet iron. Emery stood with her head bowed, trembling from the cold and the deep ache in her chest.
