Dawn at the palace was unlike any other day.
The air was thick with scent and smoke: on the day of the Ascension, every gate was anointed with the fragrance of burning pine resin, and the petals of red roses were dipped in magical ash, then scattered on the floors to bind memory in place. Upon each petal glowed ancient runes, written in invisible ink: the name, the past, the right of blood.
In the Inner Wing, Elara was prepared for ten hours.
Three blood-priestesses dressed her, each movement steeped in ritual, aligned with traditions thousands of years old. Over layers of silk, they placed a breastplate woven from golden scales, a black-burgundy collar around her throat bearing the silver rune of House Nyxar. Her hair was braided and adorned with a crescent moon forged from gold and sh
