Leonhardt escaped from Thalia's warm clutches and her sultry attempt to seduce him.
The warp glyph beneath his feet flickered out. The silence after was absolute. No claws clicking, no silk rustling, no perfume spun from pheromones and pheromone-drenched hunger. Just stone. Rune-lit, cold, loyal stone.
He slumped into his throne—not like a king returning, but like a man re-entering a skin too tight. The imprint of Thalisa's body still lingered on his frame. Her warmth clung like static.
His fingers curled around the armrest, not in command, but to anchor himself. Something in him still throbbed—not from desire, but recoil. The throne room, once a monument to his dominion, felt smaller now. Claustrophobic. The glyphs pulsing along the walls watched him like old ghosts waiting for a confession.
He exhaled slowly, with a sharp breath.
It wasn't guilt that gnawed at him. It was the echo of control he almost gave up.
