Unbeknownst to all present, the Wren watched as the boy king was crowned in the Runner's City. The ceremony was meagre, and surprisingly brief, though the speech of the king had its moments. He jostled and shuffled to get a better view of James, careful not to let his hood slip from his face. His fist clenched in its black glove as he saw the face of the boy, pretending not to be scared or nervous. He was too young! They had shoved the child onto the stage the moment he was old enough not to look too much a fool. He would have to speak to the boy king in person to be sure, of course, but the city could not wait for some whelp to grow up while people died. The Wren stormed out of the ceremony, signalling for his men to follow.

They retired to the Tragic Court, where his Army of Dreamers lay.