Page 117 of Savage Throne
I won’t let that happen to Moni, just as my father didn’t let it happen to Mom.
I put my view back on the chanters who had been yelling out the same things for over an hour now with no break in sight.
Some even cried and fell to their knees.
“Welcome, Mountain Mistress!”
“We love you!”
“We support you!”
How much will they lose themselves in her? And most important. . .do they know I don’t like the idea of sharing her with even the East?
Those thoughts made my jaw clench.
My mom had once commanded this same level of reverence.
People had flocked to her, desperate for her words, a touch of her hand. They had written songs in her honor, painted murals, named their children after her.
And when that wasn’t enough, they had turned her into something more than human—a symbol, an ideal, a goddess.
But obsession wasn’t love.
It was a poison.
I thought of the letters, the desperate pleas scrawled in trembling handwriting, the gifts that had been left on our doorstep—some beautiful, others disturbing.
And the threats. The ones that had come when she didn’t meet their impossible expectations.
Would they do the same to Moni?
Horror shook me.
Adoration was a fickle thing.
One misstep, one perceived slight, and the same hands that laid out flowers would sharpen their blades.
Hmmm.
But after that footage and all that I’d learned about Moni, I knew that she was strong—stronger than most—she’d damn sure showed it in the videos sent to the East this morning.
However, even steel bent under enough pressure.
I’ll protect her from them.
I let out another long sigh, turned around, and gazed at my attendants. “Okay. You can finish.”
Behind me, the room hummed with quiet activity.
“Yes, Mountain Master.” My attendants moved back over to me with practiced precision, dressing me for what was to come.
They began, and I stood still, letting them work.
Sounds filled the space around me—soft clicks of clasps, the faint rustle of fabric, and the quiet murmurs of my attendants as they tried to complete their tasks.
I glanced back at the window and caught the faint reflection of my attire. I wore formal pants, top, and shoes—the traditional attire of a Mountain Master during a significant battle.
It was all deep midnight blue silk and embroidered silver threads that wove patterns of dragons and aces.
