Valecar didn't breathe.
He couldn't.
His lungs had forgotten how.
The weight pressing down on the throne room wasn't just magic. It wasn't just power. It was history folding in on itself. It was blood—old blood—rising from the bones of the realm and bowing to someone else.
Lucifer didn't speak.
Didn't gloat.
Didn't move.
He just sat there, as if the throne had always been his. As if he hadn't crossed a world to get here. As if the thorns wrapping around his arms weren't slowly digging deeper, feeding on his flesh and blood like roots tasting rain.
Valecar took another slow step back. The tremor in his chest wasn't fear. It was something uglier.
Powerless rage.
He had ruled for over a century. Kept the clans from tearing each other apart. Bled for them. Buried threats before they grew teeth. He wore the title of King—not because the throne chose him, but because he made sure no one else could take it.
And now here he was.
