Palace Of Zuly Novelas e Histórias

Zayn The air is stale and silent in the rustic stone manor attached to the far side of the Mecca, the grand fortress that governs all of KiloKilo and marks its capital. Even in the violet glow of the earliest hours of the morning, the palace casts its shadow through every window in the manor, turning its already dark and sparsely decorated interior an inky kind of black. No one lives here. No one has for years. Cobwebs still hang from the highest rafters of the room where Fallon is curled in the fetal position on a bed with fresh sheets, at least, her small body swallowed by the darkness all around her.

With Marcus's blessing, they set off on their tour, Zyra at the center of their merry group. Elara, with her characteristic grace, took the lead, guiding Zyra through the grand entrance hall with its soaring ceilings and intricate tapestries that adorned the walls. "Welcome to our humble abode, Zyra," she said with a warm smile. "This is just the beginning of our palace." As they moved deeper into the mansion, Zyra's eyes widened in wonder at the opulence that surrounded her. They passed through the lavish dining room, where a long table was set with gleaming silverware and crystal goblets, ready to host feasts fit for royalty.

I felt like I was inside a fantasy land! It got even better when I saw the Imperial Palace—it was massive, maybe even bigger than the Beast King’s palace I had only seen in a picture. There were flying creatures above it, and guards stood watch on its high walls with huge flags waving. The large gate opened on its own, and in front of me stood the palace, wide and curved like a semi-circle, with a towering spire in the middle that seemed to reach the clouds. My lips parted in awe at the vast front yard, where a large fountain stood surrounded by clean canals. Colorful, large succulent-like plants lined the area. Guards were already waiting for us. The palace looked like it was made of sparkl

She walks upright, every step regal, but there’s a limp now—a flaw in her machinery. The main doors of the palace loom ahead, thirty feet tall and lacquered in a lacquer so black it eats the light. As the guards open them, sunlight slices in, catching on the dust motes and the sheen of fresh blood. Zayla blinks, momentarily blinded, and in that raw second she sees the city arrayed below: Cordiva, her birthright, the streets already crawling with rumors of the coup, every spire and bridge tense with the promise of violence.