The throne room of Aetherion had never been this silent. The marble floors shimmered with a dull reflection of the torches lining the walls, yet the light seemed hesitant to linger. A storm had passed outside — but inside, the true tempest brewed.
Lucian sat at the edge of the throne, his knuckles pale as he gripped the lion-carved armrests. Every inch of him screamed restraint. The crown rested on the table before him, not on his head. Its gleam mocked him — a symbol of everything he had gained, and everything he was losing.
Before him, Selene stood in her ceremonial cloak. It fluttered faintly with the cold air from the high windows. Her expression was calm, unreadable, but her eyes told a story of exhaustion. Not physical — emotional. She had fought too many wars, some against armies, others against her own heart.
"You should wear it," she said quietly, nodding to the crown. "The council won't rest until they see you claim it fully."
