The Constant Aching (Demetrius POV)

The hour was late. The Citadel was silent, wrapped in the cool embrace of a northern night. I stood alone in the private war room, the black marble cold beneath my boots. The King mask felt heavy, stiff, and utterly necessary.

I hated silence. Silence meant weakness. Silence meant the enemies—outside the walls and inside them, could breathe.

But the silence did not bring peace. It only made the aching louder.

The pain was a constant, low burn that lived ...