The morning after the Masquerade, the West Tower was overflowing with magic.
The floating lights from the party hadn't faded. They drifted up into the rafters, settling like glowing birds. The black ice on the floor melted into a cool mist that now swirled around everyone's ankles.
Mirabelle sat at her new obsidian desk, going through a stack of letters. They weren't refusals anymore. Now, they were pledges of loyalty, requests for meetings, and worried notes from merchants asking if the Saintess would spare their warehouses.
Revas lay on the rug in front of the violet fire, tossing a skull up and catching it. It was a deer skull, clean and white, with no trace of meat left.
"Bored," Revas announced, catching the skull on one finger. "The party is over. The nobles are hungover. And I have nothing to kill."
"We are ruling, Revas," Mirabelle said, not looking up from a ledger. "Ruling is 90% paperwork and 10% execution."
