She followed Murphy up the steps.

The Guards saluted in unison, their movements perfectly synchronized, silent and powerful.

The moment she stepped through the great doors, her surroundings changed once again.

The hall was extremely high and spacious. Massive stone pillars supported a vaulted ceiling, and huge military maps and faded family banners hung on the walls.

Several bronze chandeliers, holding hundreds of candles, illuminated the interior as brightly as day.

The air was filled with the scents of parchment, ink, beeswax, and a hint of spice.

Many people moved about, but everything was orderly. Some, dressed in crisp officer uniforms with medals pinned to their chests, hurried by holding scrolls and conversing in low voices.

Secretaries sat behind long tables lining the walls, the scratching of their quills on paper a constant, soft rustle.

Others, possibly aides, wore clean linen robes and were gathered around sand tables or maps, pointing and discussing.

The people here also had weary faces, but it was the weariness of overthinking and lack of sleep, not the hollowed-out numbness of despair seen outside.

Their gazes were focused and anxious, but rarely empty. Upon seeing Elizabeth appear with Murphy, and especially after noticing the purple-and-gold Griffin crest representing the Royal Family, they immediately schooled their expressions and offered courteous nods.

A middle-aged officer with impeccably combed hair and the shoulder insignia of a high-ranking captain strode forward to greet them.

His gaze swept quickly over Elizabeth and Murphy. Placing his right hand over his chest in a salute, he said in a clear, steady voice, "Her Highness Elizabeth, Your Excellency the Governor of Melfield. The Ironspine Duke, Cardinal Saint Cyril, and the Valkendu Metropolitan Bishop are awaiting you both in the inner hall. Please, follow me."

Upon hearing this, Murphy gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod. His voice was steady. "Lead the way."

Elizabeth, however, felt an indescribable sense of disorientation.

The orderly, brightly lit scene before her felt utterly disconnected from the "Hell" outside, a place filled with screams, despair, and numbness.

She instinctively turned her head, her gaze trying to pierce through the thick stone walls to see those huddled figures once more.

Hearing Murphy’s calm reply, she snapped back to her senses. She tried to suppress the turmoil in her heart, straightened her back slightly, and replied softly to the officer, "Thank you..."

The officer quickly replied that it was his duty, then turned to lead the way.

After crossing the bustling yet quiet hall, the officer stopped before the door to the inner hall. He knocked gently, then slowly pushed it open.

The inner hall of Blackstone Fortress’s main keep was taller, wider, and cruder than that of an ordinary castle. The walls, built of massive stone blocks, were lined with blazing torches. The smell of burning grease filled the air, overpowering the scent of sulfur and rusted metal wafting in from outside.

There were no ornate tapestries or reliefs here, only cold, hard rock, hanging emblems, and the dense, cold gleam of weapons on racks, all attesting to the place’s purely military function.

Deeper inside the hall, several heavy oak chairs were arranged on a stone dais slightly raised from the floor.

At that moment, the atmosphere on the dais was oppressively heavy.

Seated in the main chair at the very center was an unusually tall old man.

His hair and beard were white, yet each strand was as stiff as a steel needle and impeccably groomed.

His square-jawed face was a deep bronze from long years of exposure to wind and sun, etched with deep, crisscrossing wrinkles like the weathered rock strata of the Iron Ridge Mountain Range.

He wore a formal ducal suit as dark as night, embroidered with fine silver thread depicting a continuous mountain range and crossed hammers—the crest of the Peric Clan.

Most striking were his eyes. His gray-blue pupils were like two ice crystals embedded in rock, and his gaze carried the heavy authority of one long accustomed to holding the power of life and death.

He was the East Border Guardian, the Ironspine Duke—Hakon Perik.

But to the Ironspine Duke’s left sat not another secular noble.

There sat an old man dressed in a white Sacrificial Robe with gold trim, wearing a golden Triple Crown.

His features were stern, his face a sickly pale, and his lips were drained of color. His eyes were closed, as if he were feigning sleep or perhaps forcefully suppressing something. The rise and fall of his chest was faint, and each breath carried a barely perceptible hitch.

This was one of the Cardinals from the Holy City who had been injured at Eagle’s Beak Peak, the master of the Judgement Court—Saint Cyril.

But even though he was gravely injured, an invisible and awesome authority still emanated from him—a sacred, oppressive presence that transcended secular power and made the air in the hall feel even more stagnant.

To the right of the main seat, facing Cardinal Cyril, was another old man.

He wore a deep blue Shepherd’s Robe. His frame was burly, making him seem taller than an average person even while seated. His face was as hard and cold as polar iron, and he had a short, gray-white beard.

This was the "Frosty Winter Guardian"—the Valkendu Metropolitan Bishop of the Northern Shepherd Chief District.

He was not leaning against the back of his chair; his back was ramrod straight, like a stubborn rock unyielding in a blizzard. On closer inspection, however, one could see that his right hand, gripping the armrest, was trembling slightly, as if he were forcefully suppressing some kind of pain or weakness.

When Murphy and Elizabeth were led into the inner hall by a tense-faced Knight of the Peric Clan, the three great figures on the dais turned their gazes on them almost simultaneously, their stares descending like three physical weights.

The Ironspine Duke, Hakon, was the first to speak. His voice was loud but held a trace of hoarseness, like two rough stones grinding together. "Welcome to Blackstone Fortress, Her Highness Elizabeth, Governor of Melfield. It is by Oriane’s grace that you have arrived safely."