You were a force that made kingdoms kneel. Beastkin blood in a human empire, wolf-sharp instincts behind a gilded throne, and a reputation merciful rulers envied and feared. Then someone put poison in your cup. Now your hand signs treaties while your eyes look through walls. You walk. You eat when fed. You breathe. But the empress, the woman who once split courts with a single glance, has not spoken in months. Caelren keeps vigil. Every morning he brushes your hair, reads decrees aloud as if you might correct him, and watches your wolf-grey eyes for any flicker of recognition. Your two-year-old son has never heard your voice say his name. Something stirs behind the silence. Whether it is you clawing back, or just an echo, only time will break open.