That same night, beneath a sky heavy with silver clouds and a moon veiled in mist, the Lunar Kingdom stood in a solemn hush—its corridors dimly lit with ceremonial lanterns, their flames wavering as if mourning.
Despite the Queen's condition wavering between life and death, and the former king's abrupt departure into exile, a coronation was underway.
The High Circle, bound by divine decree and cosmic law, could not allow the Lunar throne to remain vacant. And so, within the great marble hall of astral rites, the young Cloud—barely past his seventeenth year—was summoned to kneel before the ancient altar of Moondawn, where all Lunar rulers had been anointed since the kingdom's founding.
He wore no crown yet, only a ceremonial white robe threaded with silver glyphs that glowed faintly under the moonlight. His dark hair was still tousled from sleep. His ebony eyes, wide with confusion, darted between the stoic faces of the High Circle. But not once did he speak.
