When Kings Enter
The music failed.
No crescendo. No last note. Just an abrupt, accurate silence—as if even the instruments did not dare breathe.
The pause held on.
And then—footsteps.
Heavy. Measured. Authority in sound.
The crowd shifted.
Even those caught laughter, caught toast, caught whisper—turned.
Because they knew.
The last guests had come.
From under the sweeping marble gates, a herald stepped forth—attired in violet and silver, his voice sharpened by tradition, his breath calm with ceremony.
"Lords and ladies of the Moonstone Kingdome… prepare your hearts, and bend your gaze."
The silence deepened.
Fans froze in mid-air. Cups were slowly set down.
Even the servants were motionless, spines straight, chins tucked.
The herald's voice resonated with centuries of ritual and awe:
"You now stand in the presence of the Crown. The Light of Moonstone Kingdome. The Storm that wards the kingdom."
