Midas walked away from the public execution grounds, his legs heavy as if each step was weighed down by the ashes of what had just transpired. The early morning sun had risen fully, casting long shadows across the plaza, but it offered no warmth to him.

Ava was gone—completely gone—and with her, any hope, any connection he had clung to. There was no trace of her, not a single scent, not a flicker of her presence lingering in the air. He had been too late.

He felt hollow. The Queen ...