The morning of the ceremony dawned gray and cold.
Elara stood on the balcony of the palace, watching the clouds gather over Cinderhall. The sky was heavy with rain that refused to fall. The air was thick with tension. The city was quiet. Waiting.
Today was the day. The day she would pass the sword to her son. The day the legacy would continue. The day the next generation would rise.
Vaelor appeared beside her. He was twenty years old now. Tall. Strong. His eyes were bright with the same fire that had burned in his great-grandfather's gaze. He carried himself with the confidence of someone who knew his destiny.
"You're up early," he said.
"Couldn't sleep. Too many thoughts."
"About what?"
She turned to face him. Her eyes were troubled.
"About the legacy. About what comes next. About
