They washed the blood from the stones before the bells stopped ringing.
I watched from the side while the servants worked—quiet, efficient, the way the palace preferred anything that made it easier to pretend.
By the time the last bucket splashed and steam curled low and thin across the flagstones, the first bell sounded from the northern tower. Not the alarm I'd heard this morning, not the warning that makes metal in my bones want to stand. This was the slow, solemn call that meant: put away your whispers and bring your faces where the gods can see them.
It was time for the coronation.
I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding and pressed a thumb where the green ribbon sat, hidden up my sleeve. It was frayed now, edges soft from being worried between my fingers. It smelled like smoke and pine resin and something that wasn't the palace. I kept it anyway.
"Your hair," said the chief attendant, hovering like a snowflake that refused to land.
