POV: Amethyst Walker
I had always known the moon was a fickle mistress, but I hadn’t realized she was in such a hurry.
Standing in the center of the newly completed Coronation Hall, I felt the heavy, rhythmic thrum of the mountain beneath my boots. The hall was a masterpiece of ancestral defiance, a soaring testament to the fact that the North refused to stay buried. The towering arches, once jagged ribs of broken stone, were now smooth, soaring spans of white marble veined with gold, catching the ethereal light of the moonstones embedded in the ceiling.
In the center of the dais sat the two thrones we had labored to reclaim. Jackson’s was a titan of Star-Iron and dark oak, looking like a mountain carved into a seat. Mine was its counterpart: a delicate yet lethal-looking chair of Sun-F
