He holds my eyes for a moment. Something moves through his expression that is not quite a smile but belongs to the same place one would come from.
"What are we?” he asks.
I look back at Veynar in the distance, small and bright against the darkening valley, entirely unaware of what is comingthrough its gates tomorrow. "Everything they did not expect," I say.
He takes my hand through the opening. Holds it once, brief and certain.
"Then we prepare," he says.
Part Seven
CHAPTER 74
The Crown’s Arrival
The council chamber is warm with voices when the doors open. The man who enters moves too quickly for the room. Dust clings to his boots. His breath has not evened out. He does not bow.
Sevrin watches him for a moment. "Speak."
"There is a procession at the gates, Majesty," the man says. "It appears to be royalty."
The room quiets without being asked to.
"From where?” Sevrin asks.
"We could not say at first," the man answers. "But the banners are Veynar."
A pause.
“It appears that the soldiers sent to the high pass have returned," he adds quickly.
Sevrin straightens. Returned. The timing does not sit right.
"Who accompanies them?”
"They come in peace, Majesty. But the procession is larger than anything I have seen."
Sevrin turns his head slightly. "Rivakar."
The man steps forward at once.
"Ready the soldiers.”
"Yes, Majesty."
The council breaks. Chairs shift. Voices rise and fall as the room empties. No one lingers.
Sevrin moves with them. By the time he reaches the corridor the palace has already changed around him. Servants move faster. Doors open. Word spreads ahead of him like something living.
When he steps out onto the front of the palace, the courtyard is full.
There are not only guards, not only the soldiers. There are commoners pressing forward behind the lines, drawn by something they cannot yet name. The air carries a restless charge, the particular energy of a crowd that knows something is happening before it knows what.
The gates open.
The first soldiers cross the threshold in loose formation.
Dust coats their armor. Their steps lack the precision expected of a royal guard. They look worn, sun-beaten, alive.
