The grand doors of the throne room groaned open, spilling light across the obsidian floor. Guards straightened at attention as King Ivan Nolan entered—his black cloak trailing behind him like a shadow made flesh, his armored boots echoing like war drums in the vast, silent hall.

He ascended the steps to the throne without a word. Each movement was deliberate, controlled, heavy with power. When he sat, it was with the slow grace of a man who owned the world but trusted no part of it.

The crown sat high on his brow, polished to perfection, yet it looked more like a shackle than a symbol of triumph.

His steel-gray eyes swept across the room—calculating, detached. A noble began to speak from the corner, something about a border skirmish, but Ivan wasn’t listening.

His gaze flicked toward the far side of the hall… where her scent still lingered.

Where she had stood that morning.

Where she had smiled at him like he was still a man, not a monster made by duty.

He clenched the armrest of the throne, knuckles whitening beneath his gloves.

“Bring the council later. Not now.” His voice cut through the room like a sword. Low. Icy. Unquestionable.

The courtiers bowed and retreated like waves receding from a storm.

When they were gone, Ivan remained still—his jaw tight, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, he simply stared at the doors, as if expecting her to return.

Finally, he spoke into the silence, his voice softer than before, almost broken.

“Where are you, my queen…?” “Everything burns so quietly without you.”