Jareth slowly closed the locket, tucking it safely. His gaze lingered on the horizon for a moment longer, the weight of his memories pressing heavily on his chest.
"Good," he replied, his voice steady and cold, as though the wind had stolen his emotions.
He stood up, the red of his cape snapping sharply in the breeze, his armor glinting as the last of the sun's rays caught it.
He turned and walked toward his waiting troops, their faces hardened, reflecting their resolve.
He'd spent years preparing for this moment—the moment when he would take everything from the emperor that had stolen his happiness, his future, and his love of his life.
Jareth reached the front of his army, his second-in-command, a grizzled knight named Bran, falling into step beside him.
"You ready for this, Bran?" Jareth asked, his voice a low rumble.
