In the Great Hall of the Southern Palace—a room that had miraculously survived the structural collapse but was now stripped of its opulence and golden tapestries—the King of the South sat upon his high throne for the final time. He looked ancient, his face hollowed out by the realization of his complete and utter defeat. The calculated, divine poise he had maintained for decades had shattered alongside his tower.
Before him stood Kaelen and Lucien, leaning on each other for support with their shoulders pressed together, and Gwen, who held the Prince of the Eclipse wrapped securely in a mantle of heavy northern silk.
The King looked at the child. He saw the dual-colored eyes—one a fierce, blazing gold, the other a deep, bottomless violet—that seemed to pierce through the political artifice of the room. He saw the way the air shimmered and distorted around the infant, a natural gravity that even he, the grand Architect of the South, could never hope to engineer with his runes.
