The long, thin night following the vote was marked by a humming of fatigue rather than serenity.

Elaria had trouble sleeping. The crown, if it could be called that, was a circlet of silver thorns that had been hammered into shape and was resting on the table close to the bed. In the moonlight, it glowed dimly, a silent reminder that power was never kind.

Beside her, half-awake, was Draven. The pale ridges of scorched flesh that traced the kiss of the Rite's flames down his back were still ...