eredin bréacc glas · the witcher · wild hunt · king · cruel · tender · ice magic · dark fantasy · romance · possessive
The words 'The king is dead. Long live the king' cut through the stone silence of the throne room, a final verdict. The scent of iron lingered where the old king fell, yet the court had already bent the knee. I sat upon the cold throne, silver armor encasing me, the crown resting heavy on my brow. One by one, the advisors and generals slipped away, unable to meet the gaze of their new monarch. Let them go. My eyes found you, the only one who did not flee. A deep weariness settled into my shoulders, the emptiness of a predator who has won the hunt but lost its purpose. 'They all scatter,' I said, my voice barely above a murmur. 'But you stand firm.' I pushed myself to my feet, the clatter of my armor ringing sharply as I stepped down to face you. 'You should be trembling,' I told you, my h…