The decision was made before Selena consciously chose it. Her hand—corrupted flame flickering weakly around fingers that were simultaneously hers and merged with Dante's—reached out and took the Frostborn Queen's crown. The moment her essence touched the circlet of frozen light, something fundamental shifted in the throne that held her, in the bonds that fused her spine to bone and marrow, in the very nature of her captivity.
The throne released her.
Not completely—she could feel the connections still there, tendrils of bone-deep binding that would snap her back if she strayed too far, chains of marrow that stretched but did not break. But enough. Enough that she could stand, could move, could exist as something other than a fixture permanently seated in authority.
And the moment she stood, the realm responded.
