As Elias moved further away from the lands of the Forgotten Court, back in the palace, within the walls of the Western Tower, Rowan—now king—stood in the absence of Elias with his crown carelessly on the nightstand. Everything was too familiar. The balcony—he had watched him find solace in the moon. The bed—they had consummated on it. The window—he often stared out of it.
This was torture. The absence was like a war within himself, fast consuming. Rowan felt as though he was fighting a battle within himself.
Sonia and Blake stepped in, much to his unawareness.
"My king," Sonia began. "I have traced the activities within the Center Tower—" But Rowan held out a hand, stopping her.
"Not now," he murmured. The coldness from his absence was nothing short of a knife, digging deeper into his heart with every passing second. Blake could feel his pain. Never had he seen Rowan so troubled and worn out.
"Your Majesty," he said.
