The room burned low with a rust-hued glow.
Torches, set in black iron sconces along the stone walls, flickered as dying breaths would. Shadows curled in the corners—long, stretched things that swayed as if listening. The scent of ash and oil clung to the walls.
Ian sat in a worn leather chair, motionless.
A cigarette dangled from his lips, one hand cupped around the end as he struck the match. The fire flared briefly, casting a moment's worth of orange clarity across his face—jagged, tired, scarred. He inhaled deeply.
Smoke filled his lungs. Then, with a slow exhale, he let it drift from his nostrils like a dragon too weary to breathe flame.
Behind him, her voice rose soft and curious.
"What does it feel like... to be king?"
He didn't answer right away.
He lifted his gaze slowly, and there she was.
Velrosa.
The princess that should have been dead.
