"No. That can't be." The word slipped from Metheea before she could stop it, soft yet desperate.
Azrayel did not argue. He only reached for her hand, his grasp firm and steady as he drew her to her feet. She stumbled after him, her pulse wild, until they stood before the great round table where the kingdom stretched across parchment and ink.
His finger pressed to a cluster of marked provinces. "Here. These are your lands."
Metheea's eyes followed the lines of rivers and mountains, the borders etched in deep ink. He tapped one name in particular.
"Lord Jegaspe has overseen them in your absence. Loyal, diligent. But his power cannot grow unchecked. These lands were given to you, and now you must take them in hand yourself."
The names of Rathen, Yeren, Thalu stared back at her, heavy with meaning. Her throat tightened. These were hers—orchards, fields, mines—wealth enough to shape kingdoms.
