Queen Lucy exhaled softly, fingers laced as she leaned forward.
"I know you want nothing to do with the Solara Kingdom," she said. "I know your ties there are cut, burned, and buried. But this isn't about pride. It's not about history. It's about survival. If we're going to have any chance of stopping Sylvathar, we need all three kingdoms aligned."
Galen didn't flinch. Didn't scowl. Didn't scoff. But the smirk faded from his lips. His voice stayed calm—too calm, like he was commenting on the weather.
"And I respect that," he said, swirling what little wine remained in his glass. "But even if I wanted to—hypothetically—it won't work."
He set the glass down gently, eyes still fixed on the swirl of red.
"I disowned them. They disowned me right back. That bridge didn't just collapse—it was incinerated, then the ashes were tossed into a void. I'm not welcome there, Lucy. Not in the palace. Not in the streets. Not even in the shadows."
He looked up, expression unreadable.
