The throne room had never felt so vast, so cold, so final.
Thirty days had carved themselves into us like grooves in stone. Three hundred and sixty sunrises and sunsets since the king laid down his gauntlet: prove the bond or be broken by it. Thirty mornings when I woke tangled in sheets that still carried the scent of one prince or another—or three. Thirty nights when the circle gathered in hidden places, voices low, hands reaching, sigils flaring brighter with every confession, every touch, every shared breath that said we choose this, again and again
