The Queen's throne was empty.
But her aura wasn't.
It clung to the marble like a crown-shaped burn—elegant, proud, and violently divine. The moment I stepped through the shrine's parting light, I felt her in everything: the banners, the stone, even the breath of the air.
I was still glowing. Still soaked in shrinelight, still humming with the Matron's vow.
And she was waiting.
Hair unbound. Armor gone. A silk sash wrapped low on her hips, the crest of Velmira woven into it like a forgotten oath. No crown. No titles. Just the woman behind the Queen, and the weight of everything she couldn't say.
Until now.
"You came back different," she whispered.
I walked toward her slowly. No longer the boy who bowed. No longer the summoned pawn she'd tried to shape.
"I had to be," I said.
She rose—unfolded, more than stood. Her body radiated the kind of power that reshaped rooms. A MILF built for war and worship, fury and fertility. But there was something else now.
A hesitation.
