It had been days since the battle, but for Ivo, it felt like centuries. Time moved sluggishly in his self-imposed isolation.
The Custodians had worked tirelessly, restoring the Old Museum, its tower and everything in it as if it had never been destroyed, all before the sun came up. The once grandiose throne room, now dark and empty, was the perfect reflection of his crumbling world.
Ivo slouched in the massive chair that had once symbolized power, but now felt like a mockery. His thoughts had become a prison, looping the final moments of the fight over and over again in his mind.
Armand was gone. Amara was gone. His lover, his best friend, both ripped from his life in a matter of moments. They had been the backbone of his world, and now without them, he was adrift.
