The Quiet After the Storm
The throne room emptied.
Slowly. Reluctantly.
Fear had weight, and it lingered long after the court fled. The great doors closed with a hollow finality, sealing Raven inside the vast chamber where echoes of gasps and screams still clung to the pillars.
He did not move.
He remained on the throne, elbows resting on the armrests, fingers loosely curled—clean now, but memory was not so easily wiped away.
So this is why.
His parents' voices surfaced unbidden, distant but firm. Restraint. Silence. Disguise.
They had never feared his power alone. They feared what followed it.
Raven exhaled slowly.
Every time he reached for that part of himself, something inside him answered too eagerly. Too completely. There was no half-measure in him—only domination or annihilation.
Dangerous.
That was the word they had always used.
His gaze drifted to the far end of the hall, unfocused, as another image forced its way into his thoughts.
Vanella.
Pale. Bloodied. Unmoving.
His jaw tightened.
The assassin had died too quickly.
The realization burned hotter than the act itself.
When he remembered how fragile she had looked—how her breath had stuttered, how close she had been to slipping beyond reach—something feral coiled in his chest.
A quicker death had been mercy.
And mercy was not what the man deserved.
He should have torn him apart slowly. Let him understand fear. Let him scream until his voice broke, until anguish soaked every second of his existence.
Raven's fingers flexed against the armrest.
The Tiger Clan Head.
A flicker of savage satisfaction stirred beneath his controlled exterior.
That one was fortunate.
Very fortunate.
Raven had plans for him—plans that would make death feel like an event. A performance. Something lively and beautiful, drawn out until regret became a constant companion.
Otherwise, Raven would have gladly ripped that arrogant head from its shoulders without ceremony.
The room felt suddenly too large.
Too quiet.
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling carved with dragons frozen mid-flight, wondering when exactly protection had turned into obsession.
When weakness had become intolerable.
When Vanella's vulnerability had become the line no one was allowed to cross.
A sharp knock echoed through the chamber.
Raven's head snapped toward the doors.
Silence followed.
Another knock—careful this time, hesitant, as if whoever stood on the other side feared the answer.
The dragon in him stirred.
The king did not answer.
The knock remained.