Consciousness returned to King Kaelvryn in fragments.
Cold marble beneath his palm, a faint ache threaded through every muscle as though he had fought a war within his own bones.
Then came sound...distant music still drifting from the outer courtyards, softer now, muted by thick walls and the lateness of the hour. The festival had not ended. It had simply continued without him.
He inhaled slowly.
The oppressive pressure that had coiled mercilessly around his ribs for days, the relentless pulse of the Red Moon pressing against his mind had receded into something distant and manageable.
He opened his eyes.
Moonlight still spilled across the ruined chamber through shattered windows, though its crimson hue had softened, diluted into something less commanding. The broken chains lay scattered where he had destroyed them, their runes dark and inert.
Memory struck him in flashes.
The growl... The surge... Valen.
