The dead of night brought an absolute, suffocating silence to the Sovereign's grand master suite. The air within the chamber was thick with the biting chill of the mountain altitude, entirely unheated save for the faint, rhythmic pulse of the violet mana crystals embedded deep within the stone walls.
Hannah McKay lay curled on the bare, freezing floor, positioned directly in the pathway between the heavy iron entrance doors and the massive, silk-draped canopy bed. True to the ruthless terms of her punishment, she had been stripped of any comfort—forced to endure the biting cold without a single blanket, sheet, or scrap of bedding to protect her skin from the frost-rimed stone. She was dressed in a highly disastrous, impossibly short silk nightgown that she had specifically chosen for the occasion. The thin, flimsy fabric was utterly useless against the chill, offering no warmth whatsoever, but it served its true, calculated purpose.
