Azryth stood in the throne room, power humming through him, the realm stable beneath his control.
And realized he didn't want to stay here.
The throne was his. The realm was secure. Demons were cooperating, infrastructure repairs were underway, territorial disputes were being resolved through proper channels rather than violence.
Everything he'd worked toward for five hundred years.
And all he could think about was that Riven was three thousand miles away in Alaska, and the physical distance felt wrong in ways the binding couldn't quite compensate for.
Spiritual phone calls were convenient. Being able to hear Riven's voice across realms, feel his presence through the connection, maintain awareness of each other even when separated…it helped.
But it wasn't the same as being in the same space, it wasn't the same as seeing him, touching him, existing in the same physical reality rather than connected only through magic.
