EMMA
Exhausted?
That word feels like mercy.
No one warns you what power truly does to a person, not the throne, not the title, but the weight it hangs on your spine, the constant ache behind your eyes, and the endless need to prove you deserve what others tried to bury.
It's been two days.
Two days of no rest, no peace, just parchment after parchment… war reports, defense strategies, internal affairs, attacks, rumors, betrayal.
I haven't eaten anything substantial. My throat burns from the dryness, and my legs feel like stone fused with fatigue.
Becoming Commander of the Gamma Council wasn't a ceremonial title. It was blood and claws. Now, everything passes through me: who we attack, who might attack us, and who smiles to our faces while sharpening a blade behind our backs. I have studied the rival packs. Even the ally ones.
"I want to know the weakness of everyone," I had told my team that morning, my voice hoarse, low, final.
And I meant it.
