The silence that followed Elian's proclamation was brittle, broken only by the sound of more knees hitting the cobblestones as they tried to revere him.
Julian felt the weight of the purple flower in his palm—it was cool, wet with dew, and thrumming with a life that shouldn't exist. He felt like he was holding a live coal.
"This is not..." Julian started, but the words died in his throat.
"What is the meaning of this?"
The voice was like a low, dangerous crack of thunder. The crowd of servants and priests parted instantly, stumbling back to create a path.
Alaric was walking toward them, his mantle billowing behind him like a dark cloud. He didn't look at the altar or the kneeling priests. His eyes were fixed entirely on Julian's pale, panicked face.
Elian didn't flinch. He gestured toward Julian's closed fist with a serene, triumphant smile.
