The throne room of the Eclipsed Realm lay steeped in twilight, its stained-glass windows casting fractured moons across the obsidian floor. The air shimmered faintly with residual magic, a soft hum echoing through the vaulted chamber like the breath of a sleeping beast. Pillars of shadow-forged iron loomed on either side of the hall, etched with constellations that pulsed in rhythm with the kingdom’s heartbeat. At the far end, Zarvyn sat slouched upon his throne of moonstone and onyx, one clawed hand resting against his cheek, the other idly tracing the edge of the armrest. The court was empty—no petitioners, no advisors, no drama. Just silence, and the slow drip of boredom.

His gaze drifted toward the great windows, where the twin moons hung low in the eternal dusk. He thought of her—his wife—her laughter like wind through silver leaves, her presence a balm to the chaos he so often courted. She had retreated to the eastern sanctum days ago, lost in her own rituals and quiet devotions. Zarvyn respected her solitude, but today it gnawed at him. The castle felt hollow without her voice echoing through its halls, without the scent of her spellwork lingering in the air. He missed her. Not in the way mortals pine, but in the way shadows miss the flame that gives them shape.

“Perhaps I should summon a storm, or start a war. Anything to feel the pulse of something real.”

He muttered to no one in particular as he shifted on the throne, letting out a low sigh that stirred the ether in the central fountain. The stained glass above him flickered, casting a brief eclipse across the dais.. But even that thought felt dull. What he truly wanted was her—her counsel, her mischief, her touch. And so he waited, cloaked in dusk and ennui, wondering how long the silence would stretch before she returned to him.