Alora glided forward, black dress trailing like spilled ink behind her, the Harbingers in their fae forms flitting around her shoulders like tiny sentinels of shadow light. Her heels echoed against the stone, the steady rhythm of power on the march through the vaulted hall.
At the far end of the room, upon the throne meant for kings, sat Rihan.
Her brother drowned in its mass. His legs didn’t touch the floor, his shoulders stiff as a board in heavy velvet garments and an oversized cloak. He looked like a boy playing dress-up, swallowed by duty and expectation. His fingers clutched the golden armrests so tight his knuckles were white. Flanking him were the high lords of Argyle, their gaunt faces bent in huddled whispers in his ears behind veiled hands.
Ser Tallin. Lord Graye. Lady Isolde. The Archbishop.
Snakes in silk.
And standing beside them like frostbitten delphiniums in full bloom was Queen Delphi. Her gown shimmered like sapphires, her expression as unreadable as stone.
The High Priestess stood to the left, holding a velvet blue pillow upon which sat a gleaming crown. Her father’s crown.
Alora came to stop before the stairs. “Oh?” she said, voice cutting through the hush like a dagger unsheathed. “My, my… have I interrupted a coronation? Curious, I don’t recall receiving an invitation.”
“I told you,” Delphi said, raising her chin. “The lords will not stand by an illegitimate child who holds no true claim to the throne. Not when she carries darkness in her veins.”
Gasps stirred at the edges of the chamber.
“Well,” Alora’s lips curled into a cool smile. “I suppose that’s true.”
The throne room rippled with magic. Even the sconces flickered low, bowing to her will.
Delphi’s composure wavered slightly. She stepped back, her hand tightening around the armrest of the throne. “You see her for what she is? She’s the daughter of a demon!”
Shocked cries rang out and the lords shrank back. She slowly climbed the steps, the shadows drifting in her wake.
Delphi paled as she approached but stood firm in front of Rihan.
Alora’s low chuckle carried in the stunned quiet. “And yet you thought it wise to challenge me.”
“The throne belongs to my son!” Delphi reached for the crown on the pillow, but Theia appeared from the curtained alcove and snatched it away.
Then Caelum marched forward with a unit of guards.
“How dare you!” Delphi screeched. “Both of you were her spies, weren’t you? Am I the only one protecting the kingdom?”
“You were never protecting Argyle,” Alora said. “Merely your own ambition.”
One of the lords muttered a protest but fell silent under her gaze.
“Something to say, Lord Tallin?” she asked.
The old man flushed, clearing his throat. “With respect, Your Majesty. Of course, I … well,weacknowledge your royal blood, but the court has not officially crowned you…”
“Then let her coronation be held today,” a voice declared.
Cloaked in amber silks, the woman stepped forward from the crowd’s edge. Her staff tapped softly against the stone. Hair like burnished bronze framed her sharp features, and golden eyes flicked toward Alora, not in awe, but recognition.
“The light remembers you, my queen,” she said, voice low and clear. “And so do I.”
Alora’s smile was faint but warm. She was relieved to see the Sun Mage among the living after Calveron’s invasion. “Lady Solara, I am glad to see you alive.”
The mage inclined her head. “And you, Your Majesty. I stand in full support of your claim.”
Lord Tallin gave a withering scoff. “Another hedge-witch to curry favor in court?”
Lady Solara turned to him, unblinking. “I am a sorceress, Lord Tallin. A Grand Magus of the Sun Guild. I curry favor with no one.” A faint shimmer of firelight sparked at her fingertips. “But I will burn through injustice, including undue insult.”
