The imperial gardens bloom under the cold moonlight, their beauty a stark contrast to the steel and stone of Eisenheim's heart. Tonight, I wandered among them, the scent of night-blooming jasmine clinging to the air. Even the most ruthless rulers must pause—if only for a fleeting moment—to admire the delicate strength of a flower that thrives in the shadows. A reminder that even in a world forged by fire, there is room for something untouched by bloodshed. (For now.)