The Wolf Who Chose Me
Right at the base of the throne.
Like if the world tried to swallow Azriel, he’d reach in after him.
Azriel gave him a faint, aching smile. “I sit,” he said, “but I don’t forget.”
And then… he sat.
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For one second—stillness.
Then came the rupture.
Not noise. Not flame. Truth.
The Hollow Throne remembered.
A pulse—pure, bright, blinding—rushed through Azriel’s chest like lightning spun from memory. His mark exploded with light—silver, gold, white—his veins burning with names, songs, histories that had no mouths left to speak them.