The morning sun cast its golden fingers through the high windows of the council chamber, but the warmth it promised never reached the people gathered inside. The air was cold with tension, thick with whispers, heavy with eyes that dared not look too long at the man seated on the throne at the end of the hall.
Allen sat like he'd always belonged there—spine straight, legs spread comfortably, arms draped over the rests. He didn't wear armor, didn't need a crown. His presence was armor. His name, now muttered in half-fear and half-awe, had become its own sort of coronation.
Fina stood beside him on the left, Rinni to the right. Both dressed in regal simplicity—flowing fabric in midnight blue and ivory, subtle gold glints at their waists. Silent. Watching. Waiting.
And in the space between them all, the spectacle began.
