The morning light filtering through the towering, sixty-foot stained-glass windows of the Great Vaulted Throne Room cast vast, geometric patterns of amber, violet, and deep gold across the polished obsidian floor. Outside, the distant, joyful echoes of the five-year jubilee festival still hummed against the thick basalt walls of the citadel, but inside this sacred sanctuary, the world had slowed to a peaceful, domestic hush.
Lucien shifted slightly on the low, cushioned stone bench at the base of the throne. He held the tiny, silver-haired baby girl securely within his long, ink-stained arms, his slender finger gently tracing the infant's remarkably soft cheek. The little girl stretched, her tiny chest rising before she let out a small, contented squeak that echoed softly against the high, vaulted ceiling.
