Ten years had passed since the Ceremony of Thorns.
And though the scroll had been sealed and the banners rolled away, not a single soul in the court truly remembered it as a union.
It was a compromise.
A truce dressed in lace.
The palace had changed.
The halls, once softened by Esme’s quiet strength, now pulsed with rigid ritual. The Oracle’s symbols adorned the stained glass, and the crest of the Flame—Agatha’s bloodline—was stitched beside Dracula’s on every noble banner. It had not replaced Esme’s, not officially. But power had a way of tilting, slowly, like the shadow of a sundial, until you no longer noticed where the light had once begun.
The people outside still bowed to their king.
From the west balcony, Esme watched it all.
The courtyard bustled with pageantry for the cour
