The storm outside clawed at the stone walls of the castle, but within King Ivan Nolan’s chamber, all was silent — too silent. He sat alone by the hearth, the firelight flickering against his sharp features. Shadows clung to the hollows beneath his eyes, deepened by sleepless nights and the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders. One hand rested on the armrest of his blackened oak chair, the other gently turning the silver ring on his finger — Lara’s name engraved into its curve, worn smooth by time and grief. A tray of untouched food sat on the table near him, the wine in his goblet long gone cold. His raven, Nyx, perched on the windowsill, watching him with quiet loyalty, as if sensing the heaviness in the air. Across the room, the cradle stood still. Empty now, but never forgotten. Ivan’s eyes flicked toward the half-open door — half-hopeful, half-guarded. He rarely let anyone in these days. Not to this room. Not to this version of himself — the man behind the crown. Then came a sound — faint footsteps down the corridor. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. But he was listening. Waiting. Always waiting.