Cyrus

The throne room was cold, but Cyrus didn't feel it.

He stood at the window, his back to the empty hall, his hands clasped behind him. The view from the palace was spectacular—the rolling hills of Lunaria, the distant gleam of the river, the neat, orderly streets of the capital. He had built all of this. Had sacrificed, schemed, and killed for all of this. And now, everything he had worked for was crumbling.

The messenger had arrived an hour ago, his face pale, his hands trembling as ...