King Maelor's hand gripped the armrest of the throne so tightly that the stone itself cracked beneath his palm.
The Queen's perfect composure remained intact, but her green eyes held a glint of fear.
Her hand released her daughters' arms and moved to her own throat in a mirror gesture of the panic visible in her children's faces.
Miravelle's silver-blonde hair seemed to glow even more brightly in the reflected light from the scrying mirror, as if her body was responding to the threat with visible terror.
Elysanthe's elaborate braids seemed fragile, inadequate armor against whatever was approaching.
Rosethiel's hand covered her mouth, suppressing a scream at the terror of what she was witnessing.
"Mobilize every defense force," King Maelor commanded, his voice carrying the absolute authority of wartime decree. "Activate all protective barriers. Prepare the palace for siege."
