Her silver eyes swept across the gathered warriors—not seeking, but judging. Where they passed, even the proudest bowed their heads, whether from respect or something deeper they could not name.
Prince Rylen came last.
His pace was deliberate, neither hurried nor hesitant, but each step landed with the weight of inevitability.
His robes were deep navy edged with blackened gold, the cloth inscribed with warding sigils so ancient that their names had been lost to all but the most guarded archives. The symbols pulsed faintly as though in response to his heartbeat.
On his back rested Eclipse Mourne, a sword known only in whispers. Forged during the rare convergence of sun and moon, it was said to contain the yin essence of a devoured spirit.
