The throne room had descended into complete disorder after Hairan's collapse and people carried him away.
Circe could barely focus on anything else anymore. The strain of holding Zeriel's soul within this realm had become unbearable. Every second felt like knives tearing through her veins. By the time Ragnar guided her away from the throne room, her legs were already beginning to weaken beneath her.
He brought her to one of the quieter chambers deep within the palace. A private room once reserved for royal meetings. The heavy doors closed behind them, shutting out the chaos beyond.
With Ragnar help, Circe lowered herself into a high back chair, her shoulders slumped with exhaustion. The cut on her palm throbbed painfully.
The wound should have started healing by now if it wasn't for how drained she felt after the entire ordeal that just happened.
