In the neon-drenched spires of the Cerene Citadel, the air tasted of ozone and ancient copper. Miro stood at the edge of the Royal Overlook, his eyes reflecting the flickering holographic banners of the .

The bloodlust wasn't a choice; it was a rhythmic pulsing in his veins, a genetic echo of the first sovereigns. Below him, the main modules of the city hummed with a life he was destined to rule—or consume. He adjusted his gauntlets, the metal cool against his fevered skin. "The descent begins now," he whispered.

By the time he reached the throne room at the core of the main module, the hunger had peaked. Miro stood before the Elders, his silhouette framed by the red emergency lights of a dying dynasty. He had descended not to serve the crown, but to bleed it dry and rebuild it in his own image.