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The Hall of the Wise was not made to be beautiful. It was made to be stern. Pillars held up a long roof of white stone laced with old bronze ribs. The throne was a plate-backed thing with a ridge like a shield wall; no cushions, only the hard lines queens learn to love because getting used to them means not getting used to anything else.
Hoorius sat on the throne lawful and neat. She did not spread like a ruler drunk on the spot. She perched like a hawk that knows the branch belongs to the tree, not the bird. A long iron rod rested on her left, the regent's sign. She wore no crown. She did not need one while the crown slept in heat and incense three halls away over the Scarlet Queen, who had shut herself away to climb to nine stars and did not require the world's sound to do it.
