The arena roared.
Stone rose in vast tiers around the open grounds, banners snapping in the air, sunlight spilling down in broad, blinding sheets as thousands of voices collided into one living sound.
The stands trembled beneath the weight of it, excitement rolling like heat through the crowd, raw and hungry and loud enough to make the banners shudder.
Metheea sat at the high dais.
Azrayel stood at her side.
She did not look at him.
Her spine was straight, posture immaculate, chin lifted just enough to remind everyone watching that she was not merely present, but placed. The tiara rested against her hair, gold heavy with age and meaning, its shape unmistakable to anyone who knew their history.
The First Queen's crown. Not worn in generations. Not worn lightly.
She ignored the weight of it.
She ignored the man beside her.
He had insisted.
