MY BELOVED CAMILLA: Enjoy the silence
They said the gods had turned their faces from Vael Thareth, and in the quiet that followed, the Vexelyrs learned to pray to themselves. Maevor’s prayer was forged of steel and dragonbone, and he spoke it in every language of war.
In the markets of Nyxmere, his name was traded like a coin — not spent lightly, for fear it might be heard. To the court, he was a weapon too sharp to sheath; to his enemies, a tide that left only ruin. Yet even the cruelest tide can be caught by a single shore.
She had no crown. No sigil. Only a voice like twilight and the unflinching gaze of someone who had survived far worse than him. It should have been nothing. It became everything.
And when Maevor Vexelyr wanted something, the world had a habit of burning.