The Grand Plaza of Silverwood was a sea of grim, silent faces. Thousands had been marshaled by the Duke's decree, forced to bear witness to the symbolic execution of their heritage. The plaza, once a place of joyous festivals, was now ringed by the stoic, menacing figures of the Black Guard. On a raised dais in the center stood the Duke—a man whose ambition was far grander than his stature—flanked by his coterie of Shadow Weavers, their faces hidden within the cowls of their dark robes. Before them, gleaming under the harsh sun, was the Silver Throne, an icon of a thousand years of Celestine rule. Beside it, a massive, roaring forge awaited its sacred meal.
Hidden within the crowd, Sakura and Himari stood shoulder to shoulder, their drab cloaks making them anonymous specks in the vast assembly. Sakura's senses were on high alert. Through the miniature sensor suite woven into her cloak, she was building a complete tactical picture of the plaza.
**
"It's worse than I imagined," Himari whispered, her eyes fixed on the throne, her face a mask of sorrow and cold fury. "He's not just destroying a symbol; he's trying to erase our history."
"He is creating a focal point of maximum security," Sakura countered in a low murmur, her eyes scanning the rooftops. "He wants to draw out his enemies. He is baiting a trap, Princess. We are the intended prey."
The Duke stepped forward, his voice magically amplified to boom across the plaza. "People of Silverwood! For centuries, you have bowed to a symbol of weakness! A relic of a decadent age! The Celestine line is broken! Dead! Today, we forge a new future! A new symbol of strength!"
He gestured to the forge. Two burly guards in heat-resistant aprons stepped forward with massive tongs, approaching the Silver Throne. The crowd let out a collective, mournful gasp. This was it. The point of no return.
Sakura felt a subtle shift in the air around Himari. The personal energy shield she had secretly woven into the princess's cloak registered a faint, pulsing field emanating from her. Himari was gathering her power.
"Wait for my signal," Himari whispered, her voice preternaturally calm. "When the throne is about to enter the fire, I will act. That is when the guards will be most distracted."
"My analysis suggests a frontal assault has a 98.7% failure probability," Sakura stated, her tone flat and factual. "The moment you reveal yourself, you become the primary target for every hostile in this plaza."
"I know," Himari replied, her gaze unwavering. "But they don't know what kind of power they are facing. And they don't know about you."
The guards heaved, their muscles straining as they lifted the ancient throne. It was heavier than it looked, weighted with history and the gravity of the moment. They shuffled towards the roaring mouth of the forge. The crowd held its breath. Minato and the other loyalists scattered throughout the plaza tensed, ready to enact their part of the desperate plan.
Sakura's mind worked with cold, machinelike precision. She analyzed firing angles, potential ricochets, and the crowd density. She mapped a dozen different escape scenarios, each one more unlikely than the last. But her orders were clear: support the princess.
The throne reached the edge of the forge. The heat washed over the dais in a shimmering wave. The Duke smiled, a triumphant, ugly expression. This was his victory.
"Himari, now," Sakura whispered, her own hand already gripping the plasma pistol concealed beneath her cloak.
Himari closed her eyes. She took a deep breath, and the ground beneath the dais trembled. She reached out with her will, with the blood of her ancestors, to plead with the stone. But as she did, she felt a strange, new power surge through her, a force far greater than her own, as if the world itself had decided to answer her prayer with a roar instead of a whisper. She opened her eyes, her hand outstretched, and a wave of force, visible and concussive, erupted from her, aimed not at the guards, but at the very heart of her uncle's arrogant display.