Chapter 93. The Sovereign’s Pause

Rain fell the day Harper Quinn was confirmed.

Not a storm. Not a spectacle.

Just a steady, soft downpour that turned the skyline into smudged light and memory. It coated the glass of Forge Tower, blurred the outlines of power, and made the city quiet in a way it hadn’t been in years.

Inside the top floor, she stood barefoot, watching.

Not performing.

Not commanding.

Just being.

The clasp was gone. The crown had never existed. But every channel still called her The Last Heir—the one who broke the ribbon, rewrote the codex, dismantled legacy with a whisper instead of a sword.

Behind her, Forge hummed low—no longer dictating pace, only echoing it.

The room was sparse now. No ceremonial objects. No cameras. Just her, the rain, and a memory of what this building used to mean.

She inhaled slowly, deeply.

The floor beneath her was cold. Clean. No longer weaponized for spectacle.

Her fingers curled slightly against her