They had scarcely turned from the crimson blaze of Ashmere's banners...leaving behind venomous words and smoldering tempers...when horns pealed across Caelmont's courtyard.
The sound rolled like thunder over stone, and the commotion of departure faltered.
Servants froze mid-step, captains lowered their flags, and even the restless horses tossed their heads as silence fell like snow upon the square.
A path opened through the gathered throng. Down it walked Elyria Venn.
The Oracle wore no crown, no jewel nor gilded hem. Her mantle was the soft shade of dawn before the sun chooses its color, shifting faintly with each measured step.
A wind moved with her, quiet and certain, though the morning air lay still otherwise. It teased the edges of her mantle, whispering of something beyond mortal breath.
She came to the heart of the five assembled courts and lifted her hand...not high, merely enough to command every gaze.
