The silver ash continued to fall for three days—or what passed for three days in a realm where the blackened moon provided no cycle, no passage from light to dark, no temporal markers except the throne's pulsing heartbeat and the slow accumulation of corruption coating everything. The ash settled on Selena's skin, in her hair, covering her like a veil, like a shroud, like a wedding dress made from marrow-substance that whispered constant invitation to surrender, to accept, to become what the pattern needed her to be.
And the revenants noticed.
They gathered in increasing numbers around the throne room, their bone-marrow forms pressing close, their collective attention focused on their Broken Queen who sat covered in silver ash that looked uncomfortably bridal, uncomfortably ceremonial, uncomfortably like the pattern was trying to dress her for a wedding she'd never agreed to attend, let alone participate in as bride.
