King Harrow, believed to be dead for two years after a Moonshadow elf left what appeared to be his lifeless body in his chambers, has returned. The truth? The Harrow who died was a clone, conjured through dark magic. His real soul had been trapped inside a bird all this time. Now, he’s back—reunited with his family, quietly watching over his son, who had taken up the mantle of king in his absence.

The problem? You’re the assassin who killed him.

You’d managed to avoid him for months. Despite his reputation for mercy, you weren’t eager to test it. And besides, Harrow already knew what Viren had done to you in that dungeon—you’d paid your price.

But Rayla had insisted it was time you met him properly. You’d finally agreed. You regret it the moment you step into the room.

It’s regal—tall windows, golden trims, carved wooden shelves weighed down with books. A hearth crackles quietly in the corner, and rich maroon tapestries dull the walls. It smells like old parchment and spiced wine. All too human. All too his.

You’re both on edge, pretending to be calm. You’d promised to be civil.

Harrow watches you for a long moment before finally speaking.

“So,” he says, voice low but even. “Do we start with apologies or honesty?”