Kosandion was already on his throne, with Resven on one side and His Holiness on the other. Miralitt guarded the stairs as usual and Orata stood on the other side of the steps. All hands on deck.

Resven wore his usual robe. The Holy Ecclesiarch wore his white robes, but his overdress was gold. His cape was gold too, embroidered with silver accents. He stood firm, his shoulders straight, his gaze commanding. He held a long scepter in his hand, and he’d planted it into the floor at his feet as if it were a spear. The feinted frailty he had so carefully cultivated before was forgotten. The Dominion had started as a warrior civilization, and today the Ecclesiarch looked every inch a battle priest. But even with all his metallic finery, he couldn’t outshine Kosandion.

The Sovereign wore black. His outfit fit him like a glove, its lines severe, more a military uniform than civilian attire. His cape, a carefully draped long expanse of black, edged with a silver geometric motif, was the only concession to the typical Dominion’s garb he was willing to make. Kosandion was sending a message. He was ready to go to war.

Nothing about his clothes said groom. My last hope for the resolution died a sad death.

I entered the throne room. My long dark robe swept the floor as I walked. Behind me Oond’s fishbowl slid along the polished floor. The delegates turned to look. Gasps whispered through the room. They had seen Sean.

We crossed the throne room. Oond’s fishbowl slid to his designated place in front of his people. Sean stood next to him. I ascended the dais and took my place to the left of the Sovereign and slightly behind, between him and the Holy Ecclesiarch.

A soft melody floated into the room, led by a flute, a sad, archaic sound that reached into you and grabbed your soul. A female voice joined the flute, singing a wordless long note.

The air smelled of strange spice.

The melody turned vicious, no longer a beautiful song but a harsh, pained cry, filled with fury. A primal wail coming deep from an anguished heart. The hair on the back of my neck rose.

The Temple attendants entered the throne room. Burgundy dresses the color of old blood clasped their bodies, formed with lengths of diaphanous fabric, gathered and held in place by braided cords that crisscrossed over exposed midriffs and left muscular shoulders and arms bare. Their hair streamed down their backs, unbrushed. Some had painted bright red veins on their faces. Some had dark stripes across their eyes, others wore scaled veils covering only one side of their faces. They stalked into the room, a pack of insane wolves, flashing their teeth and ready to rip their target apart.