For several breaths, awe held everything together.
Then the blessing widened.
It did not explode from the stage. It moved outward with the same terrible control as Azrayel's transformation, passing beyond the kneeling receivers and slipping between the bronze bowls.
Michael felt it first.
His grip tightened around his staff. His shoulders drew back sharply, and the ash marked across his brow scattered as heat rolled over him.
He looked toward the red cords.
Every chosen receiver already had a thread of royal fire entering their body.
There should have been nowhere else for the power to go.
Yet more continued to leave Azrayel.
"Your Regency," Michael called.
Azrayel did not answer.
His wings remained fully spread behind him. His golden eyes stared across the square, fixed on something beyond the priests and kneeling receivers.
Metheea.
The force reached the first line of guards.
