Garrick's POV
*****
Somewhere in Arcadia.
The manor loomed over the crimson valley like a relic from another age.
Inside, the air shimmered faintly with magic— remnants of the spells woven into every stone, every shadow.
Garrick stood before the tall arched windows of the throne chamber, hands clasped behind his back, still wearing Axel's skin. The same sharp jawline, the same golden eyes — except his eyes now gleamed with an older light.
Behind him, Amara lounged on her throne like a goddess of ruin — her black gown cascading in waves around her, her long black hair shimmering faintly under the faint glow of the red chandeliers above.
"Kyren grows arrogant," Garrick said finally, his tone flat but his jaw tight. "You coddle him too much, Amara. He's forgotten what it means to obey."
Amara's lips curved. "He's not a child, Garrick. He's the ruler of the Dark Lands now. You should be proud, not jealous."
