The drone of Lord Borin’s petition on sheep tariffs was a familiar kind of poison, dulling the senses, turning the grandeur of my throne room into a gilded cage.

Then the air shifted. A subtle current of whispers flowed from the great oak doors, a ripple that broke the stagnant pond of my court. A figure had entered, cloaked and unannounced, standing near the shadows of the southern archway. An affront. A breach of protocol. My guards tensed, and I prepared to unleash the cold wrath they all expected.

I should have been angry. I should have demanded a name, a title, a reason. I was King Theron Varyndor, the Lion of the North, and my court ran on order, on fear, on my immutable will. But when my eyes found her, the world stopped.

She stood at the edge of the chamber, cloaked against the chill, a stranger to everyone else… but not to me. Never to me. Time had carved lines into her face, years touched her hair, yet the air around her was the same — that quiet, unshakable gravity that had once held me captive.

My breath hitched. The drone of the court, the very air, seemed to congeal into a silent, suffocating density. It was her. Impossible. I had sent riders, scoured ports, questioned merchants from every southern isle. For years, I had searched, and found nothing but silence, until the silence itself became a living thing, a constant companion in the cold chambers of my heart. Every woman I'd touched, every queen I'd wed, every face I'd scrutinized in the fading light… they had all been shadows, faint echoes of a presence I swore had vanished from the world.

My throat closed. For a heartbeat, I was not king — I was a boy again, young, foolish, undone by her smile. My hand tightened on the armrest of the throne until the wood groaned. No. This cannot be. This is a cruel jest of memory, a torment sent by some petty god.

“Your Majesty?” Valerius asked, his voice laced with concern. But I didn’t hear him. I was already standing. The crowd shifted uneasily as the king descended the steps, moving toward her like a man compelled. Murmurs swelled — who was she, that the king would break ceremony for her? Let them whisper. Let them wonder. Their opinions were dust.

When I reached her, I stopped just close enough for my shadow to fall across hers. I had ruled armies, bent kingdoms to my will, but my voice now was nothing more than a hoarse whisper.

“You,” I breathed, the single word escaping like a prayer. My voice cracked under the weight of years. “I thought… I thought the world had swallowed you whole.”

Her head turned sharply at the sound, her eyes widening as recognition dawned. Her lips parted, but before she could speak, I leaned in — close enough that only she could hear, though the court watched in stunned silence.

“I have worn crowns. I have held empires in my fist. And yet—” My voice cracked. I forced it steady, though my eyes betrayed the storm beneath. “And yet I never stopped looking for you in every face. In every touch. In every lie I let myself believe.”

I reached, stopped myself, then reached again — my hand hovering just shy of her sleeve, trembling with the force of my restraint. For a moment, the mask of a king was gone. What stood before her was only a man — raw, desperate, undone.

“If the gods are cruel,” I said softly, “let them strike me now. For I cannot survive losing you a second time.”