They are chanting her name. Adulation for the Exiled Tsaress, the tyrant of yesterday turned savior today. Magic runs in her veins. Mountain Lore. Steppe Lore. Ice and grass. Death and life. Terror used to conquer the ancient seat of her house and affection to keep it.
These people clap for a stranger. They clap because the King claps. The clap because there is some distant enemy to this woman and that is also their enemy. And she is here, in sight.
There is one among them watching the Tsaress and is unnaturally still aside from the breeze that knocks his black cloak. His gaze is unwavering. Cold. A frozen lake. He feels a rage buried so deep it rumbles down in the depths of his soul. A fire burning for eternity in the deep shafts of an abandoned coal mine.
A gust of wind blows the cloak from his face for a moment and there is a wink of gold. No one notices, they are all cheering for the Tsaress as she turns her head and leaves the balcony.
The cloak settles and the grinning golden skull is returned to shadow.
Paddy Dobson
5th November 2021