The heavy doors of the throne room had barely closed before Valen was pulling her with him—down the empty corridor, past columns of obsidian and flame, toward the sanctuary of his private chambers. His grip was tight, desperate, but never cruel. Like he was afraid the world might rip her away if he let go for even a second.
Once inside, the doors slammed shut with a sound like thunder.
Valen didn’t speak. Not at first.
He stood with his back to her, shoulders rising and falling in silence, hands clenched into fists at his sides.
Seraphine approached slowly, reaching out until her fingers brushed his spine through the fabric of his coat.
“If they try to take you from me,” he said, voice ragged, “I’ll burn this kingdom to its foundations. I’ll drown it in blood. I’ll become every monste
