"...Are you seeing this, Henry?" she said aloud, voice low and sharp.
A shape stepped from her shadow, as if time had bent to allow him passage.
'Not' the old man.
Not the frail body coughing through council chambers.
Not the specter of a dying throne.
But 'him'.
Henry Von Roxweld. The real Henry Von Roxweld.
Not physically younger—no, the years still kissed the corners of his sharp eyes. But his spine was straight. His shoulders squared. His beard fuller. His presence—undeniable. Like a mountain rising from mist. The same Henry from the war chronicles. From the unrecorded victories and the whispered poisonings that rebuilt Berkimhum from rot into glory.
A king not seated.
But hunting.
"Is this sadness did I sense in you ,my daughter."
Lara spun, sword half-raised, though her arm trembled to hold it.
From the shadows behind the dais, he stepped out.
Not hunched.
Not coughing.
Not dying.
