The crown was gone.
Not dimmed. Not cracked. Gone.
The villagers gasped as one, the field shuddering beneath their feet. Lena’s hair clung damp against her face, sparks falling away like dead moths. Her hands shook, fingers raw where the broken quills had turned to ash.
Her name hung in the air, three inches to her right, black and precise: Lena Hart. It hovered like a verdict pinned to her ribs. Every breath she took lagged a beat behind the label, like the two had not agreed to remain together.
“Lena!” Dominic’s voice cut the night like a gavel. He pressed his blade flat against the invisible page between them, teeth clenched. “Stay with me.”
“I’m—” Her throat locked. The name in the air answered instead, speaking the word I’m with her voice before she did. The echo made her stagger
