[POV: Ruvan]
As he stared at the night sky through the broken skylight, he realized that the stars above the ruins did not look like the stars he once ruled beneath. They were smaller, distant, and his favorite constellations were missing.
Ruvan sat upon the fractured steps of what used to be his throne hall, a broken goblet of blacksteel in one hand. Much like himself, it was empty.
The wind howled through the abandoned hall. It sounded almost like wolves, but he knew better than to hope. He had searched for many days and nights but confirmed that no packs remained in the North.
Only ghosts.
His crown lay rusting in the snow at the edge of the dais. He tried to wear it, but ended up throwing it to the ground a few days ago, unable to stomach the sight of it. It mocked him—an artifact of a forgotten king who failed to keep his realm whole.
He should've burned it… should've burned everything.
'It isn't too late! Burn the citadel.'
'Burn. Burn. Burn.'
