The palace bells rang low and resonant, their ether-cores amplifying the sound across the Capital until every street thrummed with the countdown. The coronation hall glittered like a prism, walls veined with streaming light, the air thick with incense and the hum of power drawn from the great wards above.
Backstage, though, was chaos.
Arik had been a vision of cherubic calm in the rehearsals, sleepy, pliant, and happy in anyone's arms. But the moment the day itself arrived, the moment Gabriel was buttoned into his ceremonial robe of deep crimson lined with gold, the child decided the entire empire could go to hell.
Every attempt to take him from Gabriel ended the same: Arik's face screwed up, lips trembling, and then the kind of wail that seemed designed to rattle the bones of every attendant within three wings of the palace.
