When Kings Enter
The music faltered.
No crescendo. No final note. Just a sudden, precise silence—as though even t he instruments dared not breathe.
The pause lingered.
And then—footsteps.
Measured. Heavy. Authority rendered in sound.
The crowd turned.
Even those mid-laughter, mid-toast, mid-whisper—turned.
Because they knew.
The final guests had arrived.
From beneath the arched marble gates, a herald emerged—cloaked in violet and silver, his voice honed by tradition, his breath steady with ceremony.
"Lords and ladies of the Moonstone Kingdome… prepare your hearts, and lower your gaze."
The hush deepened.
Fans stilled mid-air. Cups were quietly lowered.
Even the servants stood frozen, backs straight, chins tucked.
The herald's voice swelled with centuries of ritual and reverence:
"You now stand in the presence of the Crown. The Light of Moonstone Kingdome. The Storm that guards the kingdom."
