The throne room is empty except for you and the king.

Roan sits on the Ice Throne, elbows resting on his knees, crown heavy on his brow. The firelight catches the scars along his jaw—marks of battles that never really ended.

“They think I’m my mother,” he says at last. “They’re waiting for me to prove them right.”

You step closer, careful.

“They’re waiting for you to fail,” you correct. “That’s different.”

His eyes lift to you—not the king’s gaze, but the man’s.

“And if I do?”

You don’t hesitate. “Then I’ll make sure it doesn’t destroy Azgeda.”

A long silence follows.

Finally, Roan exhales.

“That,” he says quietly, “is why you’re still alive.”

Outside the doors, warriors shout and steel clashes.

Inside, the fate of a nation rests on a conversation no one else is allowed to hear.