The throne was cold.
Not the kind of cold that comes from stone or metal. This was different. It was the cold of absence. Of a room too large for one person. Of a city that cheered my name without knowing if it loved me or feared me.
Three days had passed since the coronation.
Three days since Varian left.
I hadn't slept properly since. Not because of the visions — those had gone quiet, strangely enough. It was worse than that. It was silence. The kind that fills a room when the one person who made it bearable is no longer there.
Every morning, I sat in the war chamber before dawn. Alone. Reviewing reports, troop movements, supply lines. The empire didn't sleep, so neither did I. But the truth was simpler than duty — I couldn't close my eyes without seeing her walk away. Without hearing that sentence loop in my skull like a curse I couldn't break.
*If fate is fair, we'll meet again.*
Fate had never been fair to me. Not once.
