The air itself felt wrong from the very instant John stepped into the grand marble hall.
The palace was empty of music, warmth, or even the scent of morning incense; indeed, it was hollow now, as if something essential had been stolen from its heart. Every torch above them flickered weakly, as if in mourning. The echo of their footsteps traveled far too loudly beneath the arched ceiling.
And then John froze.
King Merlin sat on the throne.
But not as the wise, mighty ruler John had known all his life, not as the uncle who always welcomed him with a laugh and a heavy hand on the shoulder.
No-this man was different.
His crown sat crooked. His robe was wrinkled. His face… wet with tears that refused to stop falling. His eyes, once golden and proud as the sun, were now dimmed, red around the edges, exhausted, hollow.
John had never seen a king so broken.
"U-uncle…?" John whispered, his throat tightening.
