The King's fingers tightened slowly around the armrest of his throne, the faint creak of wood the only sound that dared to exist in the heavy silence.
His gaze never left Brandon.
For a long moment, he said nothing—yet the weight of his silence pressed harder than any shout ever could.
Then, at last, he rose.
Not in haste. Not in anger.
But with a measured calm that sent a quiet ripple of unease through the hall.
"You speak as though you understand the weight of a crown," he said, his voice low, controlled… and far more dangerous for it.
A pause followed, deliberate.
His eyes flickered briefly toward Emma before returning to Brandon, sharper now.
"Tell me, then," he continued, each word precise, "what truth is worth tearing a kingdom apart—what happens between me and my Luna is not something you get to wield as a weapon."
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, pressing in on all three of them.
The King took a single step forward.
