And so the evening found its first heartbeat. For all the fire and finery of Solmire's court, there existed one moment when even ambition itself bowed its head... when every jeweled wrist stilled, every whispered plot froze mid-breath.
That moment was the Blessing of the Eternal Pyre.
Eris Igniva, Sovereign of Flame, walked across the room, not as a woman, but as a verdict. Each step was a pronouncement of power, deliberate and unhurried, her gaze fixed upon the roaring column of fire at the ballroom's center.
The crowd parted for her, wordlessly, reverently, like the Red Sea for a wrathful god. The nobles bent their heads, jewels and silks trembling in the pyre's glow. Even the braziers seemed to bend their flames toward her passage, as though recognizing the bloodline from which they were born.
