Colonel Mathura beckons me forward, but the balcony is a maw with a balustrade of marble teeth. The crowd devours me with their cheers. I shuffle forward to be consumed by their support. The midday sun feels like sand in my eyes, the wind delivers a lashing. My fingers reach for the tangled beard I no longer have.
Behind the lectern on the balcony, President Leno Orvalo raises his hands. Silence descends over the mob. My clawed hands clasp the balustrade, cold as iron bars.
“Friends. Comrades.” He spreads his arms. “Did I promise you this day would come?” The marble under my hands shakes with the roar of a hundred thousand agreeing voices.
