13
Ren stepped off a helicopter onto a windswept moor.
A loud ocean surf broke against the rocks, spraying a fine mist through the air. Thunder rumbled through the sky, and a patchwork of dark clouds rolled overhead.
She pulled her cloak closer to her. The hood, made of red silk, was warm against her skin, giving her some comfort against the cold.
A gloved hand grabbed her arm and guided her forward.
Dyne led her over the rocks.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
Her cheeks were still sore from the tattoos. Tender and swollen. If only she could see herself—she probably looked like a chipmunk.
She said nothing.
“The coronation will begin soon,” Dyne said. “We have a speech ready for you. You actually have a full-time communications specialist who will help you craft your messages.”
“Wha
