The heralds' brass trumpets split the crisp morning air before the palace gates had even begun their slow, heavy groan on iron hinges.
It was a high, ancient fanfaring note that had rolled down the steep cobbled avenues of the capital for three generations of the Nevareth dynasty.
The crowd had been gathering since the third hour of the night.
Every alley, every narrow side-street, every frost-rimmed balcony leading toward the Great Plaza was packed ten people deep, the collective heat of their bodies rising into the freezing sky like a pale grey mist.
On the corner of the weaver's quarter, a little girl perched high on her father's shoulders, her small woolen mittens gripping the crown of his hat.
"They're here!" she screamed, her shrill voice slicing clean through the ambient roar of the street. She threw her entire body forward, her legs kicking against her father's collarbone in a frenzy of pure, unadulterated certainty. "They're coming out!"
