The Riftborn King's words hung in the air like poison, seeping into every corner of the void, contaminating the nameless dawn with doubt. Selena remained pressed against Dante's chest, listening to his heartbeat—still human, still steady, still defiant in its simple rhythm. Around them, the ash continued its eternal drift, particles of their former selves, remnants of flame and storm that had been powerful enough to shatter reality itself.
She pulled back slowly, looking at Dante through tear-blurred eyes. His face was haggard, marked by the same fears that clawed at her, but there was something else there too—a stubborn determination that she recognized because she felt its mirror in her own chest.
"He said thrones are inevitable," she said slowly, working through an idea that was still half-formed, still dangerous in its implications. "That hierarchy will always reassert itself. That people will always organize into rulers and ruled."
