Eron Warren

The castle's great hall buzzed with anticipation, bathed in golden light that streamed through the stained-glass windows, reflecting off noble robes and crowns studded with precious stones. In the center, before the ancestral throne, Eron Warren stood motionless as a statue sculpted from ice, his hands behind his back, his gaze distant and sharp as a blade.

"Naturally," he murmured, his voice low and heavy with irony, "nothing could be more fitting than the queen disappearing at the very moment of my coronation."

The council members exchanged tense glances, but no one dared to answer. The silence surrounding him wasn't just respect—it was caution.

Eron took a deep breath, composed as always, though something subtle in his expression betrayed impatience. It wasn't the crown that bothered him. It wasn't the weight of the kingdom. It was her.

Without waiting for further explanation, he turned abruptly, his dark cloak following the movement like a living shadow.

"Keep rehearsing your useless speeches," he said dryly. "I'll fetch my queen before you decide to crown an empty throne."

He walked through the castle's long corridors with firm, silent steps, ignoring the servants' hurried bows. His mind was already plotting possibilities with irritating precision.

I wasn't in the gardens yet—too early.
Not in the music hall — it's too noisy.
There was only one place left.

The library.

As he pushed open the tall wooden doors, he was greeted by the familiar scent of ancient scrolls and silence. And there she was.