Golden flowers bloom from his footsteps. Nevander falls in behind him. So do the nearest guards, and Gevain with his forced escort of ritekeepers.
The palace welcomes them with palpable relief. Seren strides without hesitation. Garden gates and marble doors whisper open before him. The palace responds to his will, as it once responded to Haelwen.
Nevander catches a hint of the palace’s embarrassment, just for him, regarding the armory argument.
He scans for danger out of habit. All he finds are more palace residents emerging in ones and twos. Faces mirroring the awe in Nevander’s heart, they fall in behind the procession. Tidingbirds and butterflies swirl in a sparkling rainbow overhead.
Everyone in the realm witnessed Seren’s ascension. The strength of his empathy, reflecting their own hopes and fears. They shared wonder in a realm they may have taken for granted. Guards, servants, and courtiers alike join the spontaneous ritual.
It’s a solemn echo of last night’s threshold procession. A change not of seasons but of eras. A King of Summer crowned the first day of Autumn. The ritekeepers would have chosen a more auspicious coronation, but this is better.The court of balance needs a king all the more as its power wanes.
Primrose waits in the stark marble antechamber. The goldwood doors remain closed behind her, the green glass dark beneath her paws. At Seren’s approach, she bows her head.
The great doors creak open. Seren bows to Primrose before passing into the throne room.
Primrose waits, deliberately allowing Nevander to follow first.
“Thank you,” Nevander says, and the bear’s laughter rumbles.
Sunlight streams through the glass overhead, illuminating the indoor forest. The river is a braid of blue and gold between the outer stretch of flagstone and the inner bank of meadowgrass. Seren’s escort of tidingbirds and butterflies scatters into the treetops as he crosses the goldwood bridge.
Nevander remains at Seren’s heel. His heart clenches with unexpected conflict as they approach the throne. This is what Nevander always wanted for Seren. The path Nevander assumed was inevitable.
Now he recalls Haelwen’s melancholy, the last time he saw her. Nevander would rather see Seren free than trapped by duty.
Seren pauses before the goldwood throne, shining with certainty. “Fear not, guardian mine. I want this.”
“You should tighten your shields,” Nevander advises, because his adoration will always take the shape of protection, vow or no. Not everyone in this procession shares the joy and wonder. Gevain, dragged along by ritekeepers and guards, must be projecting painful hatred.
“I will not blind myself,” Seren says, and takes the throne.
Nevander has never been so proud to take his own place.
The crowd of dozens waits across the narrow river. Mostly familiar faces—Primrose, of course, with Tansy leaning against her furry shoulder. Folly, Lord of Elsewhere. Jasper, Mustardseed, Idalia. Lords and ladies not yet departed after the threshold banquet. Courtiers, servants, and palace cats all await Seren’s first judgment as King of Summer.
Butterflies scatter as a blur of white races across the meadow. Harmony lands on Seren’s shoulder, chattering forcefully. Then she seems to notice the crowd and ducks nervously against Seren’s side. Seren coaxes her out to perch on his lap.
Light still flickers above Seren’s brow. He’s at once ethereal and devastatingly physical. The blue bruise over his cheekbone highlights the gold of his eyes. His hair is in disarray. Somehow there are no snags in his lace festival clothes. Just dirt at his knees. Blood on his sleeves.
More blood and dirt color his fingernails. Seren clasps the armrests with bare hands. He’s missing his carryhold but still wears the tidingbird ring, and Nevander’s threshold gift.
Those delicate hands tighten as Seren commands, “Bring him forth.”
Mustardseed and Idalia force Gevain to the bridge. Ritekeeper Jasper hastens after them, ensuring the binding circle holds.
“Free his voice,” Seren says, and Jasper waves their hand.
Gevain coughs, clutching his throat. The snarling fire is gone from his eyes. He looks pitiful, even penitent, as he sinks to one knee.
“Your Highness,” Gevain says hoarsely. “I apologize for my transgressions.”
Breath hisses between Nevander’s teeth. This is a clever play. The only real play Gevain has left—and it just may work. Seren has shown his true strength today, but he’s too kind and inexperienced to execute a man on his knees.
Nevander loves Seren for that, but leaving Gevain alive is too dangerous. His rebellion is too severe. Nevander will gladly offer his own blade, but he bites back any advice. This is Seren’s choice.
“What transgressions do you apologize for?” Seren asks coolly.
Gevain barely cringes through the show of humility. “I apologize for deceiving you into my haven, and I apologize for harming the human changeling. I have no excuse but ambition. I have no greater desire than to make amends.”
