The Voice of a New King
The courtyard still hummed with the echo of the crowd's chant.
Then, all at once, silence.
The kind of silence that didn't just fall—it pressed.
It sat heavy on the chests of every soul gathered there, as if the very air refused to move until the man standing above them spoke.
Leon stood motionless for a long time, the faint breeze tugging at the hem of his black cloak. The morning sun had climbed higher now, cutting through the smoke-stained clouds that still drifted from the battle. The scent of burned stone and dried blood lingered in the air—a cruel reminder that peace hadn't yet settled, only paused.
He let his gaze sweep the courtyard. Thousands of eyes stared back—some wide with awe, others tight with confusion or fear. He could feel it in the air: uncertainty, disbelief, and a quiet, fragile hope fighting to breathe.
He had seen it before.
In the Silver City.
In the ruins of Moonstone.
