POV EMMA BELLE
The victory celebration in the Great Hall was a blur of mead, flickering torches, and the relieved howls of the mountain's inhabitants. The Black Crag was alive again, its obsidian walls humming with a purified, silver light that resonated with my own heartbeat. But as I sat on the throne of bone and stone, the weight of the crown felt lighter than the gaze of the four men standing around me.
Damon stood to my right, his golden eyes burning with a primal, territorial heat. Nathaniel was on my left, his silver gaze calculating, already planning the reconstruction of the North. Vincent was a shadow at the foot of the dais, his dark eyes watching the threads of fate.
And then there was Félix.
He wasn't standing in a formal position. He was leaning against the arm
