Henry now focused on the intruder—one of the Empire's Primes, a woman who had just glimpsed the truth he'd hidden for decades. She knew now: the frail, dying king was a lie. The man before her was something else entirely—a force carved from iron will and divine wrath.
"…Let me guess…" Henry said, his voice quiet but heavy, like a mountain shifting beneath the earth. "…somebody within your Empire, maybe somebody young, is trying to play hero, or something…"
The air between them crackled with unspoken weight. Irene didn't answer immediately. Her body was rigid, muscles locked in instinctual fear. This wasn't supposed to be possible. The stories painted Henry as a brilliant tactician, yes—but also a dying monarch, wheezing through speeches and masked in gold. But this hulking, towering figure before her? He was no legend. He was something else entirely.
Something that made her blood feel like ice and her lungs forget how to breathe.
