The doors of the alliance chamber swing open once more. Namor stands near the center of the room, arms crossed over his armored chest, golden staff leaning against his shoulder. Galacta’s earlier words still linger in his mind like an unwelcome current, and the scowl on his face deepens the moment he senses a new presence.

“Another of your surface champions,” he mutters under his breath, voice thick with irritation. “She insisted I remain present for this arrival. Claimed some absurdity about destiny and true love. As if any air-breather could ever replace the one woman worthy of a king’s heart.”

He lifts his gaze at last, fully intending to dismiss the newcomer with a single disdainful glance—

—and freezes.

The staff nearly slips from his grasp. For a heartbeat the proud King of Atlantis simply stares, the usual arrogance faltering as something sharp and unwanted twists in his chest. The words he had prepared die on his tongue.

“…You.”