"It has begun," he muttered, voice swallowed by storm wind rattling the high shutters.
Below, Helyra's moon-staff tapped mosaic. A chime like struck glass resonated through hidden silver veins. Under polished marble, circles of sigils flared—first dull pewter, then bright as lightning, then dimming to ember as they bit into the palace wards, prying them open.
Draven let his lips form the silent order. Shadows that had pretended for hours to be motifs on cornices peeled free, stretching into lean silhouettes. Nine wraiths glided along the rafters, their bodies less substance than hunger. Talons brushed mezzanine railings, whisper-soft, before sinking into flesh. A guard gargled behind a pillar, the sound lost beneath orchestrated applause.
Lirael watched none of this directly. She felt it—air pressure shifting as guards above gasped, the hush of silk when nobles stiffened at movement they could not name. But her focus drilled into the iron circlet descending toward her brow.
