I walked toward the center of the lobby, stopping beneath the largest chandelier.

The light reflected off the polished marble floor, creating a circle of gold at my feet.

For the first time in five years, the weight on my chest was gone, replaced by the cool, steady air of the lobby.

I looked up at the empty space above the reception desk where Bennett’s portrait had hung only yesterday.

It had already been removed, leaving only a clean, bare wall of cream-colored stone.

Tomorrow, a new emblem would go up—the simple, elegant crest of the Monarch.

I took a sip of the water, the coldness sharp and clean in my throat.

The empire was no longer a shadow of betrayal; it was mine, entirely mine, rebuilt from the very ashes they thought would bury me.