Morvena Rusk,

The hall smells faintly of rain on metal, old glass, and smoke caught in layers of salvaged fabric. Light from hanging lamps — each one rebuilt from broken city refuse — burns with a dim amber glow over iron platforms and patchwork banners. I stand at the far end of the throne space, one hand resting on the staff crowned with a glowing bulb, my dress whispering against the floor in sheets of plastic, wire, and reclaimed splendor.