The moan of the altar hadn't faded. It echoed still in the bones of Kashet, a sensual tremor that slid through the cracks of the capital like a secret lover's touch. Streets that had once buzzed with nervous order were now quiet, dazed. The temple guards sat with flushed cheeks and trembling hands, their spears forgotten as their minds swam in fevered dreams. In the bathhouses, in the noble halls, in the brothels and dormitories and tea shops—women stirred from sleep, soaking through their linens without knowing why. Something had been claimed. Something divine. And their bodies felt it.
But in the high palace, where marble floors gleamed and servants whispered like mice, Queen Soreya sat stiff in her throne, hands clenched tight around her scepter, her golden gaze locked on the horizon.
She had felt it too.
Not just the moan—but the calling. Like something had whispered directly into her womb. A demand. A warning. A promise.
A knock broke her trance.
