POV: Mara
I’ve never seen a ceremony held in rubble before. Half the courtyard stones are cracked, and the flags hang in soot-smudged strips. People crowd the square anyway—limping, bandaged, hollow-eyed, but here. Alive. Some lean on crates because their legs can’t hold them long, others clutch children wrapped in blankets that still smell like smoke. A few clutch each other. No one stands alone.
It shouldn’t feel holy, but it does. Maybe because surviving disaster together is its own kind of worship.
The Regent stands between two pillars that used to hold a balcony. Now they hold her up instead. Her color is awful—ashen under the sunlight—but her spine remains straight. When she lifts her chin, the whole courtyard lifts with it. Her hands tremble from the poison still stuck in her veins, but her voice—her voice is iron hammered into something sharper.
“Lysanth must rise,” she says. The words echo off the broken walls, turning dust into attention. “And I cannot rise with it. Not now.”
A hush spreads. Confusion. Shock. Even fear. I hear it ripple like water struck by stone. A few people try to murmur, but Silvie shushes them with a single look.
My heart slams once—so hard it feels like the bond shoved me from inside. Cael’s fingers brush mine in instinct, not ceremony. Just him. His warmth. His steadiness even when he’s pale and hurting.
The Regent turns toward us—toward him, toward me—and lifts the decree scroll with both shaking hands. I swear I feel the entire city freeze. Even the wind forgets to breathe.
“From this hour until peace is restored,” she declares, voice ringing even as her knees nearly buckle, “Cael Orion Rhyss and Mara Ilyas of White-Gold will rule as Crownward Regents—together.”
My stomach drops. My lungs stop. My knees nearly abandon me on the spot.
Cael’s hand finds mine fast—steady, urgent—and his thumb brushes my palm in a slow circle, grounding me in a way nothing else can. His eyes ask a question without words: Are you with me? Are you ready?
I manage a nod, though it feels like pushing a mountain forward with my chin.
The crowd doesn’t bow. They fall. Not slowly. Not politely. But all at once, like a wave collapsing under its own weight. Knees hit stone. Hands press to chests. A few start sobbing into the dirt. Others whisper prayers, promises, names of the dead.
I feel every gaze like a hand against my ribs. Awe. Confusion. Fear. Hope. All woven together into a net I never asked to stand inside.
Then I hear it—voices carrying through the courtyard in hesitant, crackling whispers:
“White-Gold…”
“Is it true?”
“Look at her—god—look at her eyes—”
“She carries it—she really carries it—”
My throat tightens. I feel exposed, cracked open, like the whole city can see straight through my skin into the wolf curled under my heart. Aster presses quiet against my ribs—steady, calm, not pushing or rushing, just… there. Breathing with me.
The Regent lowers the decree scroll and sways. Cael moves forward reflexively, but Jax gets there first, steadying her elbow while pretending not to. She manages a nod, though it looks like it costs her more than blood.
Cael’s hand tightens around mine—firm, warm, certain.
“Breathe,” he murmurs under the noise.
“I am,” I whisper, though my voice shakes. “Barely.”
He squeezes again—once, clear through the bond. I’m here.
Movement flickers at the courtyard edge. Smoke curls like a serpent. I turn just in time to see Seris slipping between the shattered columns—gliding backward into shadow, her dress catching on splintered stone. Her face is a knife’s reflection—sharp, cold, distorted with fury she can’t hide anymore.
She watches me the way a hunter watches a flame threatening to spread into the woods. Then she vanishes into the dark.
“She’s not done,” Cael mutters, his jaw tightening so sharply the scar at his cheek pales.
“No,” I say. “But neither are we.”
Before he can answer, a horn splits the air—sharp, urgent, unmistakable. Not alarm. A summons. A warning that doesn’t wait to be understood.
The messenger appears like he was launched from the ramparts—mud-splattered, panting, shouting before he even reaches the courtyard center.
“Moonfell’s main army—” he gasps. “Under Kade—advancing on the south bridge!”
A collective gasp ripples through the people. Mothers clutch children closer. Fighters reach for hilts they haven't had time to rewrap since yesterday. Someone swears. Someone else whispers a prayer. Someone else says “not again” while tears spill fast.
The world tilts in my chest—slow, then violent. Kade.
Coming here. Now.
My blood freezes, then boils, and the bond hums hot in response.
Cael’s eyes find mine—gray, fierce, afraid for me before he’s afraid for anything else.
And all I can whisper, through breath that feels like shards, is:
“Then we don’t get a quiet morning after all.”