But honestly, any change for the Dragon Lord can only be better.
“I asked you all here because, as you know, I have my viyella and my people to consider, and reconstruction takes every bit of attention I have,” Kael announces. “My mer-wardens have pushed the SoulTakers back for now. It is someone else’s turn to guard the crown.”
My entire body tightens.
I feel their attention shift to me like heat seeking kindling.
They all know what they think of Thorne, Demon Lord of the Broken Plains.
They think I burn everything I touch. That I destroy more than my share.
They are not wrong.
But they also know when Nightfall bleeds, I am the one who stands in the fire and does not retreat.
I would protect this realm until my last ember gutters out.
Not because I love it gently—but because I understand what it costs to keep the forges burning.
Because I know what happens if they fail.
Ours is the realm of secrets and dreams. We fuel the multiverse, and its survival relies solely on us.
Yes, it is true that I have said I would rather destroy Nightfall than kneel to the wrong ruler.
I stand by that.
It is not arrogance. It is not cruelty.
It is a refusal to settle.
The truth?
There is none among us who is fit to be Prime.
“Do we really still believe that any of us is worthy of filling his shoes?” I murmur.
The question hangs in the air like ash that refuses to settle.
Alaric moves first. His wings rustle softly, illusion sloughing from him like smoke peeling away from flame.
“Perhaps not,” he says carefully. “Nonetheless, Thorne, the shoes cannot remain empty.”
Dagan’s jaw sets.
The stone beneath our feet answers him with a low, restless groan, the bones of the realm shifting in uneasy agreement.
“We miss him too, brother,” Alaric adds, quieter now.
Kael says nothing.
He does not need to.
His silence carries weight—like the sea before a storm.
“Yes,” I say, voice rough. “We miss him. None more than I. He was my mentor, once.”
Pain lances hot and sharp. I’m used to it. I don’t flinch. And a humorless laugh scrapes from my throat.