Amara's POV
The heavy doors shut behind Skylar, her screams echoing faintly as the guards dragged her down the hall. Amara stood alone in the Judgment Hall, the silence pressing against her chest like invisible weights.
She inhaled deeply, closed her eyes, and whispered to herself, "You asked for this power, Amara. Now carry it."
A second later, footsteps echoed down the corridor—firm, deliberate. It was Chris.
He looked… different. The bandage on his temple peeked from beneath his hair, but it was his eyes—cold, calculating, tired. His gaze scanned the room, landed on her, and held.
"You did it?" he asked simply.
"Yes," Amara replied, keeping her tone neutral. "She's nothing now. A ghost in the halls. She no longer has a number, not even a servant's clearance."
Chris nodded slowly. "Good."
But Amara could see it. The conflict in his eyes. He was still human beneath the title. Still bleeding, even if no one could see it.
She stepped forward. "Chris… do you regret it?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he walked toward the throne—his throne—and sat heavily, leaning on one arm. "I regret trusting her. I regret believing she wouldn't break when everything didn't go her way."
"And me?" she asked quietly.
Chris looked at her sharply. Then his expression softened.
"You…" he said. "You stayed. When it was ugly. When it hurt. When it bled. You're still here."
That was all she needed to hear. She approached him and dropped to her knees before the throne, not in submission—but in unity.
"Then let's rule," she said. "As one."
He extended his hand to her. "As one."
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