Waylen stood before his bedroom door, suitcase in hand, breathing in the last remnants of his old life.

  Everything here was the same.

  The unmade sheets, the stack of books untouched on his desk, the coffee mug long abandoned in time. Two months had passed, yet nothing had shifted—except him.

  The quiet weight of finality settled in his chest. This wasn’t an impulsive departure. It wasn’t running away. It was a transition, deliberate and irreversible.

  His suitcase sat at his feet—compact, efficiently packed, carrying only what mattered.

  A few sets of clothes. Comfortable, familiar, the kind that wouldn’t remind him at every moment that he was somewhere unfamiliar.

  His notebooks. Thoughts scattered across years, ideas he never shared, observations that might mean nothing in Eryndell but meant something to him.

  His watch—simple, worn, unremarkable, but a constant. He doubted time moved the same way in Selene’s world, yet the instinct to keep it remained.

  A pocketknife—small, practical. Not out of fear, just habit.

  And his phone.

  Not because it would work. Not because it had any use.

  Just because leaving it behind would make the departure too absolute.

  He stood still for a moment, fingers brushing the suitcase handle, eyes tracing every corner of his room one last time. The familiarity of it—it-the stale normalcy—pressed against the edge of his thoughts.

  Then, just as before, it happened.

  But this time, he didn’t recoil.

  This time, he let it unfold.

  It was seamless.

  Not a burst of light, not a swirling vortex—just a quiet rewriting of reality.

  The air shifted first.

  Gone was the muted scent of his apartment, replaced by something sharper, colder, and damp stone and something faintly floral.

  The edges of his doorframe blurred, dissolving like ink bleeding into water. The wood didn’t change—it simply ceased to exist.

  And where his bedroom wall should have been, there was something else entirely.

  Moonlight splattered over ancient stone. The polished marble beneath his feet stretched into an arched corridor lined with flickering torches. Symbols curled along the walls—patterns twisting like veins pulsing with light, mirroring the same impossible architecture he had glimpsed once before.

  This wasn’t his world.

  This was hers.

  And she was waiting.

  Selene stood beyond the threshold, hands clasped loosely before her. She didn’t call his name, didn’t beckon him forward. She simply watched. Assessing, calculating, searching for any hesitation in his stance, any flicker of doubt.

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  Waylen met her gaze, steady.

  She wouldn’t find any.

  He inhaled slowly, tightening his grip on the suitcase handle.

  And then, without hesitation, he stepped forward.

  The doorway behind him ceased to be.

  The world swallowed him whole.

  The air was colder than he remembered.

  Sharp, crisp, carrying the scent of damp stone and burning torches. He exhaled slowly, adjusting to the sudden weight of presence—the reality of standing in a world that wasn’t his own.

  Selene inclined her head slightly. A quiet acknowledgement.

  “You have returned,” she said.

  There was no ceremony in her voice, no flourish—just simple recognition.

  Waylen tightened his grip on his suitcase.

  “Not sure ‘returned’ is the right word,” he muttered. “I didn’t stay long last time.”

  Selene studied him.

  He wasn’t sure what she was looking for—some confirmation, perhaps, that he hadn’t changed his mind. That he wasn’t here by mistake.

  Whatever she saw, it was enough.

  “Come.”

  And just like before, she led him through the stone corridors. The walk was familiar now—the endless stretch of flickering torches, the towering doors reinforced with silver, the intricate symbols lacing the ceiling.

  Everything about this place exuded control, precision, and power.

  They arrived at the same room—the one she had brought him to before. It was just as he remembered. Dark wood furniture. Velvet seating. A chandelier casting golden light over polished bookshelves and a woven carpet. The glow of the fireplace flickered softly, illuminating elegant tapestries along the far wall.

  Warm. Deliberate. Refined, but comfortable.

  Waylen sat across from Selene, resting his suitcase beside his chair as she settled into her seat across from him. She wasted no time.

  "You will not arrive here as a stranger," she said. "At least, not publicly. You will be introduced as a distant member of the royal bloodline—one who has lived far from the court but has returned in a time of necessity."

  Waylen exhaled slowly, arms resting against the chair. "I imagine some people will have questions about that."

  "They always have questions," Selene replied, a hint of dry amusement in her voice, though it never softened her tone. "But questions only matter if they find answers, and in this case, they won’t. The palace dictates history. You will be who I say you are."

  Waylen huffed lightly, shaking his head. His thoughts turned over the words carefully. Just like that. A royal figure pulled from nowhere and rewritten into existence.

  It was calculated. Absolute. And yet—it wasn’t wrong.

  "It is the only way," Selene continued, her voice measured. "A direct decree. No speculation, no uncertainty. The nobility may whisper, but they will not challenge it. They cannot."

  He studied her carefully.

  This was how power worked here. Not through influence, but through controlled inevitability.

  "You are my consort," she added, watching him closely.

  There it was. No pretence, no embellishment. Just a fact.

  Waylen rolled his shoulders slightly, considering that word now, not as a vague concept, but as his reality.

  She hesitated, just slightly, before adding, "I am not asking you to be someone you are not, Waylen. I just need you to do this right."

  Waylen raised an eyebrow, the shift in wording catching his attention.

  "Do this right," he repeated. "Not ‘do as you’re told’?"

  Selene’s eyes flickered slightly—not quite an expression, but a shift in thought, an acknowledgement of his meaning.

  "This is a partnership," she said, "whether we planned it or not."

  Waylen breathed in slowly.

  That was true.

  For better or worse, this was his reality now.