"The winds of change do not ask permission; they test, they tear, they reveal. And when the storm comes, even kings must choose where they stand."
The rain refused to cease. It had drummed on the castle roofs since dusk, a stubborn percussion that played long into the night. Hours had passed since Marcus's confession, yet I remained awake, my chamber filled with shadows and the low hum of a storm. I stood by the window, hand pressed against the cold glass, watching rivulets chase each other down like warring serpents.
Vayne, my wolf, prowled restlessly inside me. His unease was not only from Marcus's truth. No, this was different, sharper as something clawed at us, and it was not the storm. Sleep was impossible, and my body was heavy, but my mind surged like the tide. I rubbed my face, muttering curses about insomnia and politics, when the knock came.
It was not tentative, nor polite, but the kind of knock that belonged to someone with no intention of leaving if ignored.
