The king stood motionless for a breath—chest heaving, eyes empty yet boiling. The portal behind him finally collapsed in on itself with a low shriek, snapping shut like the jaws of some unseen beast. And with it, any hope he had of correcting the broken thread was gone.
Gone.
All because of her.
He turned.
The queen was still on the floor, half-curled, the folds of her gown smeared with dust, her arm twitching involuntarily. Her breathing came in shallow, shaky bursts. She didn't even look up—her mind was fractured, barely holding onto the moment, reeling from what the king had torn out of her minutes ago.
She was helpless.
She was his enemy.
And now—she was in his way.
The king stepped forward. Once. Twice. The silence in the tomb tightened. The ancient spirits watching from their stone reliefs held their breath—or perhaps wept.
With no warning, his foot struck.
Right into her ribs.
