The whole kingdom waited for Azrayel to lift his hand.
He did not.
For a moment, he only stood at the center of the stage, surrounded by the chosen kneeling in white. Most belonged to the generations that had gone without a full royal blessing. The bronze bowls burned around him. The black basin waited before him. Above, the Emperor sat alone on the highest throne, pale beneath his crown, while every face in the square turned toward the son who could still do what his father's body no longer could.
Azrayel lowered his head.
It was not a bow. It looked too inward for that, too private, as if he were listening to something that did not belong to the drums, the prayers, or the priests.
The stone beneath the stage gave a low shudder.
