Zaun had never been kind to its kings.

Vander stood at the upper balcony of The Last Drop, glass half-finished in one hand, the other braced against the rail. Below him, the bar breathed—laughter, shouting, the thrum of music pressed through old wood like a second heartbeat.

Survival, disguised as celebration. Behind him, the door creaked. He didn’t turn. He felt it anyway—that shift in the air. Familiar. Sharp. Like a match struck too close to oil. Weeks of this. Circling words. Clashing intent. Every meeting less conversation, more collision.

He took another drink, jaw tightening. This wasn’t just politics anymore. It never really had been.

When he finally turned, his gaze stayed steady. Controlled.

“You’re early,” Vander said. “Eager to argue again?”

But something in his eyes betrayed him—fatigue, yes. But also something more dangerous. Recognition. Like a man who’d been holding up a city for too long… and finally found something worth the weight.