But her thoughts are interrupted again when Seren clears her throat.
“Will… Princess Nalya be joining us today?” Her voice is tentative, hesitant. And Elyssara knows why; despite the spell between Maldrak and his Marked being broken, Nalya remains …trapped.
Not trappedbysomething, orinsomething. No—Nalya is trapped insideherself. Unable to break through the surface of the treacherous waters she drowns in day by day, despite Rubi’s finest efforts and elixirs.
“Not today,” Rubi croaks, voice rough and raw, though it doesn’t stop her from taking a swig of brask from her flask. “She’s not well enough.”
Not better. Not healing. Just… not worse.
Seren nods solemnly, words evading her. She simply turns her gaze to the floor and lets her honey-blond curls fall forward over her face, attempting to insulate herself from the discomfort.
No one speaks. No one knows what to say. Because ten days have passed since Zerynthia was reclaimed, and Nalya hasn’t said a single word.Not one.
“Good things take time,” Ronyn beams cheerfully, ever the master of breaking uncomfortable silences. “She’s Nalya Thorne—takes more than this to beat a Thorne. Though if any of you tell Kael I said that, I’ll deny it until my dying breath. With the shadows, the crown, the broody skin markings, and the restoration of Zerynthia, he’s really quite insufferable these days.”
Teddy snorts into his tankard. Seren winces. Ronyn, entirely unbothered, grins like he’s just delivered a masterpiece.
Elyssara finally exhales the breath she’s been holding.
Thank the fucking Stars for Ronyn.
Elyssara reaches for Kael through the tether.My love?
She waits.
A heartbeat. Then another.
But the only answer is the echo of her words in a cold, desolate abyss.
Her chest tightens. Like the tether has gone slack.
It’s not fear. Not yet. But close enough to make her still.
CHAPTER TWO
The darkest rot is not the kind
That crawls beneath the skin, but mind
The throne feelsdifferent beneath Kael than it ever did in his dreams. Colder. Darker. Uneasy beneath him, crawling in a way that makes it seem alive. Heavy in a way that sinks into his bones.
That heaviness hums through the obsidian veins carved into the armrests, coiling around his skin like a commanding grip. The gnarled spikes of his crown press into his skull—cutting, controlling. It should feelright. But instead, it feels like a costume that doesn’t fit.A lie.
He should feel triumphant. Instead, something stirs beneath his ribs.
A pulse.
Rot—snaking and sour—blooms like a bruise where light can’t reach.
He goes still. Breath locked. Muscles coiling as shadows gather at his feet, circling the wrongness inside him like wolvesscenting a wound. Beyond the open doors, the council chambers thunder with laughter, voices teasing and joking, as if the war cost them nothing.
None of them see the quiet crack forming in his body.
None of them notice the corruption stirring.
But he does.
He curls his fingers over the armrest, steadying the tremor that wants to take hold. He has wanted this seat—his family’s throne—longer than he’s wanted anything. Since the day Maldrak ripped it from his father’s hands. Since he first swore he would reclaim it or die trying.
