“Don’t touch that scepter.”
Sienna’s command froze three councilors mid-reach. Marble dust drifted from the shattered ribs of the throne room like pale breath, the ceiling webbed with fractures that mapped the moon’s wound onto stone. The crown lay crooked on the dais, one silver point bent, as if it had tried to bow and failed.
“We’re securing the regalia for the realm,” Councilor Varrin said, smoothing his beard with fingers that trembled too much to pass for calm. His robe was immaculate; his eyes were not. “Protocol compels.”
“Protocol can wait until my city stops bleeding,” Sienna said. Her voice filled the chamber without shouting. She stood bare-headed, hair wild around her face, the crescent burned into her wrist throwing a steady glow that pulsed like a second heartbeat. The go
