The Throne Hall of Scales had never looked softer.
Lanterns floated like tame stars under the ribbed crystal ceiling. The dragonbone arches threw back a warm glow. Along the outer walls, names scrolled in steady lines—warders, medics, fence crews, unit leads—each one catching applause as the camera feed highlighted a face in the crowd. The orchestra tested a gentle chord. Drones drifted at approved heights like curious birds.
We'd made it through the hard part. Lyralei's opening had landed clean. Marcus spoke for the Line with a soldier's plain truth. We took the moment of silence early, like Tiamat asked; the quiet was full and honest. Ian read names with the two choir elders—steady cadence, pauses where the room needed them. Luna closed the honors with thanks to the healers and the people who held the fence when it wanted to break. No drama. Just weight and gratitude.
Now the floor belonged to the living.
