I am not an impartial narrator. I am not the sort of chronicler who steps politely out of the way to allow history to unfurl itself in all its majesty.
No, I am petty, biased, and entirely preoccupied with the preservation of my own skin. If my recounting veers toward sarcasm in moments where more noble souls might lean toward solemnity, then I can only ask that you forgive me.
After all, when one has been repeatedly flattened, stabbed, humiliated, and threatened with celestial debris, the sense of reverence tends to wear thin.
That said, even I fell quiet in that moment.
The plaza, ruined and ragged as it was, still held the echo of ceremony. The air was thick with dust and expectation, so heavy that each breath seemed to scrape the throat. The nobles in their half-collapsed balloons leaned forward as if a theater curtain had drawn back on the climax.
