The throne room was cold.
Not in temperature as the fires crackled steadily in the fire place but in spirit.
The space had always been austere, carved in black stone and moonlight, but now it felt cavernous and hollow.
As Nixon stepped into its center, his footsteps echoed like distant thunder, swallowed by the height of the vaulted ceiling.
He walked alone, though his advisors waited just beyond the chamber doors. They would enter when summoned. For now, he needed the moment to himself, to let the choice settle in his soul.
His hand brushed along the edge of the throne as he passed it. He wasn't ready to sit not until he felt like a king again and he had taken the first step toward securing the court's future.
From his belt, he withdrew a sealed letter. A name inscribed on the outside in his own careful handwriting.
To High Priestess Imara of the Dawn Court.
The first invitation.
