Parker lifted his hand with that smooth, lazy kind of gesture that still somehow made the air pause.
Helena Nyxlith—goddess of grace and quiet obliteration—rose like a blade unsheathing itself. Fluid. Lethal. Regal. She turned, faced the great hall, and bowed first to the throne. A deep, full bow. Not just formality—acknowledgment.
The room stilled.
Her hair fell like midnight snow across her shoulders as she raised her head and let her gaze sweep across the sea of bloodlines and ancient names seated below. Her voice came next—smooth velvet stitched in steel.
"Let it be known," she began, not loud but perfectly clear, the kind of tone that didn't need volume to command obedience. "You are all gathered here tonight to greet and present yourselves to His Highness, Prince Nyxlith.
"The Original."
A current passed through the room. Barely a breath moved.
"After eight lives—yes, count them, eight," she added, almost dryly, "our Prince has awakened fully in his final incarnation."
