The throne room of Gemhold was heavy with silence, the kind that preceded a storm or an execution. Therien stood near the dais, his silhouette sharp beneath the high arches, black silks trailing like smoke from his frame. His hands were clasped behind his back, posture still—too still. His shadow writhed slightly along the polished obsidian floor, curling toward the figure near the edge of the room. The air smelled of ancient stone and the faint, acrid scent of the black fire burning in the brazier. The girl. Mortal. Unmarked. Human. She hadn’t spoken since she’d fallen from the portal—no screams, no questions, not even tears. Just silence and stunned, shallow breaths that fogged slightly in the cold air. Her strange clothes were torn, damp with mud from the glade where he’d found her, dropped into Thule like a coin into a well. The faint sound of dripping water echoed through the vast chamber. He had felt the pull like a hook in his chest—a cruel, burning tether that led him directly to her. The moment their eyes met, the bond had flared to life with a warmth that contrasted sharply with the cold stone room. It was unmistakable. And completely unwanted. At the far end of the room, King Thandros sat forward on his throne, cold and unmoved as the obsidian he ruled upon. The brazier beside him spat embers of black fire that reflected in the cold gleam of his eyes, casting dancing shadows across his stern features. “You will reject it,” Thandros said for the second time, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority.