I gently close the book and throw my eyes straight ahead at some unseen distance.

  The silence that takes me is long, palpable almost.

  The least believable part is a throne made entirely of crystal. The legend clearly describes an Archcrystal but they have always been charged with their eternal living light and cannot be cut.

  Only many millennia ter did humans learn how to break an Archcrystal—birthing me—and forge bdes from the shards.

  Regardless of the story's veracity, many things can be learned. A selected few schors and I shall dissect each word of this book.

  Magnus will probably give me some cold, logical conclusions.

  I gifted Magnus a citadel—for his immeasurable services to the Realm. I designed the citadel myself, about a century ago. It is in fact a huge pace designed to give a feeling of a royal stronghold.

  All stories have a speck of truth to them. And in regards to the text before me, these specks—my instincts tell me—are worth their weight in aurichalcum.

  Humans often confused strength with brutality. A wild animal can be brutal its whole life.

  Strength is brutality applied at the right moment.

  And this imperatrix, this human, if she even existed, seems to have understood this.

  I am outside again, strolling through the area in front of the grand entrance and before the perron—a dot upon the polished, wide walkway surrounding the Pace.

  Escaped again. A screeching demon cuts my path.

  Asking for attention, sweet Jeju looks at me expectantly.

  I crouch and gently pinch the dog's ear.

  When I rise, a shimmer attracts my attention and I look to my right, far away, and hard-focus my eyes, eating away the distance of several miles.

  A powerful eastern wind buffets the upper reaches of my crystalborn trees, strong enough to tear their perennial leaves. Outskirts are showered by an ocean of shimmering crystal dust.

  In the distance, hundreds of winged beasts are circling the Green Archcrystal, instinctively drawn to its nurturing light.

  I look to my left. A ten-foot-tall guard, cd in thick full armor, kneels before me.

  ''Maker,'' the ogre says deferentially.

  I smile, gesturing for him to rise. ''Do not do that, my son. Bad for the knees as well as the marble.''

  Brontes straightens, debriefing.

  All of the scouting parties have reported.

  It was nothing.

  I tilt my head skyward.

  Swirls of white and gray clouds dance across the heavens.

  Stretching endlessly, the sky reflects across my eyes.