The great doors of the imperial ballroom swung open with a solemn creak, red carpets unfurling like the tongue of a beast welcoming its queen. Trumpets blared, their tune sharp and disciplined.
At once, the entire hall sank to their knees.
Celestia strode in, her gaze scanning the kneeling crowd. She didn't pause. Each step was measured, unfaltering. She ascended the high dais, turned, and sat on the obsidian throne without waiting for the end of the fanfare.
"Rise," she said flatly.
They obeyed.
The hall stood still, expectant.
Her gaze swept the crowd again—many of them veterans, nobles, generals, mages, scholars. All had gathered not just to celebrate, but to seek refuge under the shadow of her name. She could see it in their eyes—the unease, the creeping fear brought on by the devil cult's resurgence.
Pathetic.
