He stood over what had been broken, over what had been taken, over what had just become his. And Blackmoor no longer stood as a kingdom. It stood as something else entirely—occupied, claimed, waiting.
Thessian did not remain long in the throne room. The seat had been taken and the kingdom had shifted, and that was enough. He rose without ceremony or lingering and turned away from the carved stone that had held generations of rulers before him. Whatever weight it carried no longer held his attention, because what mattered had never been the throne. It was what he carried. Liora remained in his arms. He had not set her down again after the square and had not allowed any distance to form between her and himself, as though even the act of placing her beyond his reach would be a failure he would not permit. Her weight rested against him, too still and too yielding, her presence defined not by movement but by absence.
