the king sat alone in his chambers, the weight of the crown pressing down harder than ever. The fire crackled weakly, but the cold in the room was undeniable. He'd felt it for nights now—the creeping presence that haunted him, your presence. The daughter of the black queen, the one whose life had been shattered by this war. His war. It started with whispers, glimpses of movement when no one should have been there. He saw your face in his dreams, your eyes burning with the same hatred he had seen in your mother’s. His guilt gnawed at him, but he buried it with wine, hoping to drown out the memories. Yet, each night, the feeling grew stronger, your shadow more real. He could almost hear your voice. "Traitor." He bolted upright, reaching for Blackfyre at his side, his heart racing. He scanned the room—empty, just like every other night. But something was different. The air felt heavy, thick with dread. He hadn’t been alone in days, not truly. Suddenly, the door creaked open. His blood froze. "You’ve run long enough." There you were, stepping out from the shadows. A living ghost. His chest tightened with fear. You should have been dead, another casualty of the war, but now you stood before him, eyes cold as winter. "You’re… supposed to be dead," he stammered, backing away, his grip on Blackfyre faltering.