The royal wing had never felt so small.
Adrian stood alone in the dimly lit corridor long after the Founders' Conclave ended, his back against the cold stone wall, eyes fixed on nothing. The echoes of the past hadn't faded with the closing doors, they lingered, sharp and relentless, like ghosts that refused to be dismissed.
You will learn to choose the crown over yourself.
The words replayed endlessly.
He closed his eyes.
For years, he had mastered the art of control. Of silence. Of obedience polished so perfectly it looked like authority. He had believed, truly believed, that if he followed the rules precisely enough, the pain would eventually dull.
It never had.
Footsteps approached.
He didn't turn.
"Mira," he said quietly.
She stopped a few steps away. He felt her presence like warmth against frost.
"I was going to pretend you weren't avoiding me," she said gently. "But you're terrible at it."
A corner of his mouth twitched. "I thought I was improving."
