Lucien's POV
The throne room smelled of smoke and iron.
Blood had a way of lingering, in the cracks of marble, in the seams of the stone, in the air that refused to clear no matter how many fires you lit. Even the tapestries seemed to drink it in, and when the wind slipped through the high windows, it carried that copper sting like incense offered to a god long dead.
I sat upon what had once been the Veyra King's throne, legs crossed, head tilted lazily against one hand. My fingers were stained crimson to the knuckles. The banners of the old order had been torn down days ago, their golden crests burned into dust.
Now my banners hung in their place, deep crimson and silver, stitched with the sigil of a serpent devouring its own tail.
Power.
