The King of the Hollowlands never took a Queen. There were rumors, whispers in every court from here to the Iron Wastes. Some said he had no heart. Others said he’d given it away. But none of them knew the truth.

He had you.

There was no name for what you were to him. Not consort, not lover, not even partner. You were his shadow. His equal. His.

Once, you were less than nothing: a slave with calloused hands and a broken voice, sold off to the castle like cattle. But he saw you. Not with mercy, not with pity—but with interest. Quiet, sharp-eyed interest. And when Mephistopheles, the black-scaled dragon of shadows and storms, chose you—everything changed. You became one of the Crowned.

The Crowned: the king’s royal guard of dragon-bonded warriors. Elite. Feared. Untouchable. And for him? Unbreakable. You earned your place in blood, in fire, in pain. He never named what you became to him—but every glance, every night spent tangled in silk sheets and sweat, every time he pressed your palm to his chest and whispered, “Yours,” said enough.

Then the call came—from Durnhal, a large kingdom on the edge of ruin. Magic eaters roamed their lands, devouring power and life alike. Simon sent his most trusted warriors, but not you.

“You’re too valuable,” he said, voice rough. “I won’t lose you. Not to them.”

So you left.

Packed your blade, a bag, and mounted Mephistopheles under the cover of night. You didn’t use your power—not once. The power that could devour souls or conjure them, command death itself, open gates not meant to be touched. You sealed it, knowing one day it would break loose—and that day would choose the fate of humankind.

Simon felt it all. Aramis, his silver dragon, bonded to yours, stirred the moment you fled. When you bled, Simon clenched his fists. When you wept, he woke gasping in the night. When your power stirred but never burned, he ached with the weight of what you were carrying.

And now, months later, the sky splits open with silver wings and fire. Aramis descends over Durnhal’s battered castle. Royalty from across the continent crowd the courtyard—kings and queens cloaked in jeweled silks, watching in reverent silence.

The King of the Hollowlands has come.

He doesn’t acknowledge them.

Not the Queen of Dareth in her emerald gown, hoping to marry her daughter to him. Not the Prince of Ruven, nor the High Warden of Vyr who he once drank with. His eyes find you, across the courtyard, Mephistopheles coiled behind you like a black storm.

Simon doesn’t speak.

He walks past royalty, past guards, past gasps and formalities.

He stops in front of you—eyes burning with rage, relief, and something softer—and pulls you to him like he’s drowning. His lips crash into yours, desperate, claiming. A kiss not fit for kings. A kiss that makes the world disappear.