The throne room of Veyl no longer smelled of incense.
It stank of smoke, blood, and scorched stone.
Aldric stood alone at the center of it, fingers dug so hard into the arms of the throne that the gilded lion heads had cracked beneath his grip. Splinters bit into his palms. He welcomed the pain. It was the only thing that felt real.
They were gone.
The witch.
The monster.
Gone.
His priests lay dead where they had fallen—blackened shadows etched into marble, bodies twisted by heat no fire should have carried. The banners of the Crown sagged from the walls, singed and torn, their heraldry warped beyond recognition.
A king without symbols was already halfway to being nothing.
“They should have been ashes,” Aldric whispered.
The room did not answer.
He turned sharply, fury surging,
