Valecar didn't sleep.
He hadn't in years, not since he first tasted what it meant to sit on the throne—even if only as a placeholder. Even if only as the one left behind when the bloodlines scattered and the old order cracked like dry stone.
He stood in the lower wing of the keep, far beneath the throne room. No light reached here. No sound but his own breath.
But the silence helped.
Helped him remember.
Helped him hold onto the anger.
His jaw clenched, fangs bared in the half-light as he paced the edges of the old chamber. Cracked tiles traced circles beneath his feet, worn down by his own boots over years of walking this path—this same stretch. Over and over. The same way a hound paces its cage.
Above, he sat. Like it was owed.
Like it meant nothing.
Valecar snarled quietly and pressed a hand to the nearest column. Blood surged beneath his skin, vibrating through his fingertips. He didn't smash it. He wanted to. But he didn't.
Not yet.
Instead, he whispered to the walls.
