Damien's POV
The throne room has never felt this fragile. The walls that once carried the pride of generations now echo with whispers, thick as smoke. It's been two weeks since the war ended, yet the air refuses to breathe peace. Every footstep in the Blackthorn palace sounds like suspicion. Every glance feels like a blade turned politely away.
I stand by the tall windows overlooking the ruins of the western courtyard. The flags still hang at half-mast, torn and blackened at the edges. The scent of burnt stone lingers no matter how much incense the servants burn.
The Obsidian diplomats arrived today, a reminder that wars may end, but politics never sleeps.
I tighten my gloves, trying to still the tremor in my fingers. The rumours are spreading faster than wildfire, whispers of me and Adrian, of the kiss witnessed by soldiers, of two kings whose souls burned brighter than the gods themselves. They call it blasphemy. They call it love. I don't know which is worse.
