The grand balcony of the Obsidian Citadel did not overlook a ledger of slaves any longer; it faced an ocean of torches that stretched all the way to the melting roots of the Wyrmtooth Ridge.
The coronation robe was not woven from the sterile, white-silicon silk of Saint Aurelius's court. It was a heavy, midnight-blue velvet, lined with the thick silver-blue fur of the Blackfang alpha line, and embroidered with the intricate, ink-spun silver runes of the northern archives. It was a garment that carried the weight of both the forest and the library.
Lucien stood to her left, his pale hands steady as he held the crown—a seamless ring of dark basalt stone, inlaid with raw, ungrounded gold veins that pulsed in perfect sync with Gwen's internal solar furnace. His single grey orbit was clear, tracking the movement of her breath with a quiet, reverent focus.
