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T he Veil had never been so quiet.

Not silent—no, that would be impossible. It still pulsed beneath her skin, hummed in her breath, coiled in the corners of the court like a wild thing finally at peace.

But it had gone still in reverence.

As if it too knew what this moment meant.

Evryn stood at the top of the polished obsidian steps, moonlight drenching the dais in silver. The hall had been cleared of its debris, but the cracks in the stone remained—left unfilled, as she’d ordered.

They were reminders. Not of weakness. But of truth .

They were what she stood on now.

Not lies. Not bloodline or fear. Truth.

And the Veil acknowledged it.

The Court was gathered below her. Every House.

Every whisper of rebellion turned to pledge.

The Bearclan wore their battle-scars like banners.

The Dragonflame shone like molten justice.

The Sablewing shifted like shadow and wind, half-present in every way that still made her blink twice to confirm they were real.

Seraphine, Calder, and Malrik stood at the front, heads bowed—not in submission.

In unity. And with them stood the king and queen of the wolf shifters; Selene and Kael of House Fenrir.

Evryn’s heart thundered.

Beside her, Lucien stood in midnight black, shadow-thread glinting at his cuffs, a dagger at his side—not hidden.

Not needed. But still there. Always.

He looked straight ahead, jaw firm. But his hand was waiting—slightly open.

Waiting for hers.

The Archbinder stepped forward, voice clear and strong with ceremonial weight.

“By the will of the Veil and the voice of the people, do you, Evryn Vale, claim your right as Queen of the Shattered Claws, Sovereign of the Prime Blood, and Keeper of the True Throne?”

She didn’t hesitate. “I do.”

The crown came forward—not the old spiked monstrosity of tyranny, but one reborn from the metals of all Houses, forged with the fire of the rebellion and cooled in blood and shadow.

It shimmered as it was placed upon her head. And the Court exhaled. A sound like storm breaking. Like war ending. Like hope returning.

Then the Archbinder turned to Lucien. “And do you, Lucien Umbraclaw, chosen Consort, sworn blade and shadow, accept this bond—not as weapon, but as witness, not as heir, but as heart?”

Lucien didn’t look away from her. “I do.”

Evryn turned, fingers sliding into his—tight. Certain.

Their hands bound not just by ceremony, but by what had survived fire and betrayal and death.

Panther and Assassin.

Queen and Consort.

Evryn stepped forward and raised her joined hand with Lucien’s.

“I do not promise peace,” she said, voice strong and low. “But I promise truth.”

The Veil stirred. The people bowed. And when the crown caught the light just right, it gleamed not with gold, but with dawn of a new beginning.