Scene
Chains clattered as Annastara was dragged into the throne hall of Kaeithar. Shadows leaned across soaring pillars, torchlight dancing against a mural behind the throne. Though faded by centuries, the figure painted there still loomed: a warrior haloed in fire, blade raised high — the Starborn.
Annastara’s gaze lingered, unease stirring. The image was familiar, yet cloaked in fog she could not pierce.
The guards forced her forward. Her body gleamed with stone, jagged wings scraping the floor, the chains biting deep into her wrists. Courtiers gasped and whispered from the gallery.
“Moroc!” one spat.
“No — a Morem, surely.”
“She is neither. She is omen.”
The king rose. His steps struck the stone like judgment itself as he descended from his throne. His presence filled the chamber, cold and imperious.
Then Annastara let it happen. The shimmer, the fracture, the shedding. Stone cracked away, dissolving into dust as flesh bloomed in its place. Her chains slipped loose, falling useless at her feet. Wings folded and fell away in shards of granite.
Gasps rippled through the hall.
The king halted, eyes burning with disbelief. His voice cut through the silence:
“Tell me, child. Are you Moroc… or Morem?”
Annastara stood, trembling, but raised her chin.
“I am neither. I am my own being.”
Murmurs erupted like a tide. Some crossed themselves, others muttered curses.
The queen rose from her seat, descending the dais with quiet grace. Where the king was iron, she was warmth. She stopped before Annastara, her eyes soft with pity and resolve.
“She is a child,” the queen said. “And she suffers. That is reason enough for mercy.”
“Mercy?” the king’s voice thundered. “This creature is an aberration — no kin to us! And you would shelter her in these halls?”
“She is not aberration,” the queen answered, steel beneath velvet. “If we name ourselves rulers, we cannot be only judges. We must also be guardians.”
The court erupted — half shouting their assent to the queen, half echoing the king’s wrath. Factions formed in a heartbeat: some nobles bowed their heads toward the queen, pledging compassion, while others barked that weakness would doom Kaeithar.
The king raised a hand to silence them. His jaw tightened, but he did not strike down his queen’s words. For in the eyes of his divided court, her stance had already won more than his fury could undo.
At last he spoke, each word like a stone dropped into still water.
“Very well. The child may stay. But remember, my queen — if she proves a danger, her blood will be on your hands.”
The courtiers murmured, the divide not healed but sharpened.
Annastara, still trembling, looked to the queen — and for the first time saw a human face that did not condemn her.