Mist clung low to the earth, curling around Ezra’s boots as he stepped free from the Asylum’s crumbling maw.
The battered gates of Laughteria stood in the distance — bent iron and fraying banners snapping in the cold wind.

No drums welcomed him.
No horns announced him.
Only the whisper of rain against the velvet tents, and the hush of a world that felt him coming.

Ezra walked alone, the silver ring glinting like a soft wound upon his finger.

Each step was quiet, deliberate —
as if the ground itself remembered older kings, and now made way for one reborn.

He carried no crown.
He commanded no army.
He bore no titles but those written in scars and silence.

And yet—
the earth bowed.

—
Inside the shivering heart of Laughteria, the circus folk stirred.
Acolytes paused in their work, feeling the air tighten.
The lion, once restless, pressed low to the ground in submission.
Even the battered, drunken clowns stopped their bickering, sensing something ancient brushing their souls.

No one spoke.

Somewhere above, a rusted weathervane spun once, creaking, as if saluting.

—
From the tallest balcony of the Main Tent — little more than torn velvet and splintered wood —
Livia stood.

The wind tangled her crimson hair around her face as she gazed down at him.
For a heartbeat — she didn’t breathe.

Ezra approached like the storm’s chosen.
Blood still dried along his jawline.
A thin tear marred his left eye, where psychic battles had nearly unraveled him.
The ring on his hand whispered of vows older than memory.

And though he bore no banners,
no legion,
no throne —

he was a king.

A king who had walked through hell —
and come home.

—
He stopped before her stage.

Looked up.

Their eyes met across the distance —
hers, dark and trembling;
his, burning low like coals banked against the coming cold.

Ezra did not kneel.
(He was not made to kneel.)

Instead — he bowed his head.
A warrior’s bow — not of submission, but of sacred offering.

"I am yours," the gesture said, wordless.
"In war or in ruin. In life or in death."

Livia’s throat tightened.
Somewhere deep inside her battered heart, something fragile began to hope.

This was not yet a kingdom.
This was not yet a court.

This was a circus of broken things.

But here — with a king who had chosen her —
it could become anything.

Even a throne the world had forgotten how to fear.

—
The rain thickened, veiling the world in silver mist.
Ezra remained, unmoving, like a blade forged in sorrow and tempered in loyalty.

Above him, Livia closed her eyes against the sting of rising tears.

When she spoke — it was only a whisper, lost to all but him.

"Welcome home, my Hollow King."

And in the broken belly of Laughteria, where monsters learned to dance and ghosts learned to sing,
history trembled.

The first brick of a new empire —
was laid in silence.

The rain whispered between them, weaving a thin veil of mist.

Livia descended from the cracked stage in silence, her boots soundless against the soaked earth.
For a long moment, they simply stood — close enough to feel each other's shivering warmth, but not yet touching.

She tilted her chin, searching his face.
Ezra wore the Asylum still — the grief, the revelation, the silent victories etched like battle paint across him.

Her voice broke the hush, low and careful:

"You came back heavier than you left."

Ezra’s lips quirked — a small, tired smile.

"That's how war works."

Livia stepped closer, close enough now that she could see the raindrops trailing down his scarred temple.
She hesitated — then reached out, brushing her fingers just barely against the ring he wore.

The cold silver pulsed faintly, as if breathing.

Her voice softened even further:

"Did you bring something you're not telling me?"

Ezra held her gaze — steady, unwavering.
And yet, there was a gleam beneath the coals of his eyes.
A secret he carried not from malice, but from... protection.

He lifted her hand gently from the ring, enclosing it within his own.

"I did," he admitted, voice a low thunder.
"But only because it's not time yet."

Livia frowned slightly, her thumb brushing unconsciously over his knuckles.

"Ezra..."
A warning. A plea. A queen's worry, not yet a queen’s command.

He squeezed her hand once — firm, grounding.

"When the world starts to burn, when the crowns fall from trembling heads—"
his voice dropped to a hush so low she had to lean in to hear,
"—you’ll need something more than a sword."

She swallowed.

Ezra let her go then — slowly — as if handing back a burden too heavy to give yet.

His next words were almost a vow:

"Until then... let me carry it for you."

A moment stretched long between them —
the broken circus leader and the Hollow King.
Not yet rulers.
Not yet conquerors.

Only survivors, weaving the first threads of something monstrous and beautiful between their battered hearts.

The rain masked the tear that slid free down Livia’s cheek.
Ezra saw it anyway.

But he said nothing.
Kings did not flinch at sorrow.
They only carried it.

Just as he would now — for her.

And the silent vow wrapped itself around Laughteria, unseen and unbreakable:

When the time came —
the broken would rise.

And the forgotten would reign.