They called it The Spinal Throne.
A black vein of stone cutting the land where the Empire ended and the wild began. It looked like bone. Felt like death. And it was built on the backs of slaves.
Now, Yshari stood before it—chained, sunburnt, heartbeat humming with something that felt almost like joy.
Because somewhere beyond this monument of cruelty, her people still lived. And behind its shattered edge, her kin had screamed their defiance loud enough for the world to hear.
The journey there had nearly killed them. Days without water. Beatings. Mud and blood. She might have wept from pain if she hadn't been so drunk on hope.
Beside her, Kael limped. His arm still bled through his wrappings. Lioren was ghost-quiet, eyes sharp under sweat and dirt.
The wall loomed like a god. They were given hammers. Shovels. Orders.
Then she saw her.
A woman in nomad rags, hair braided in the old ways. She carried stones twice her size and cursed in a dialect the slavers couldn't understand.
Yshari ran to her.
The woman stared. Dropped her load. Her scream cracked like a whip.
"Little sun?" she gasped. "By the gods, I thought you dead."
Her name was Davi. Once a servant to Yshari's mother. She wept as she clutched her. Called her wild girl. Called her hope reborn.
And then she whispered it.
"Your family lives. In the mountains. Hidden. Safe."
Yshari almost collapsed.
"And the boy," Davi added. "The one you were promised. He's here."
She pointed to the gallows.
"They hang him in three days."
Yshari turned slowly. The storm behind her eyes wasn't hope anymore. It was fury.