The throne room was closed to public audiences that day.
When Abby entered, soaked from the storm and cloaked in soot and shadows, the court fell into murmurs. The prince was beside her—his coat torn, his jaw bruised, but his eyes fiercely locked on the queen's. The knights behind them bore scorched armor and weary expressions. But it was the absence of one that echoed the loudest.
Duke Alaric of Serrowood. Gone.
Auriella stood before the dais, flanked by high mages and royal guards, her golden crown stark against the dark violet of her mourning gown. She had worn this gown once before—when her husband fell during the Siege of Athis. She never thought she’d wear it again so soon.
"Tell me," she said, voice like ice cracking over glass, "what happened inside the Rift?"
Damian spoke fir
