Dan Hunglow slumped on his throne and pictured a garden he would never own. He saw a small house at the edge of Zeroveil, a plot of dark soil, and Gareth beside him at dusk. Instead he sat under amethyst spires, blue-skinned and bald, ruling a land he had stopped wanting. His crown pinched. A tabby cat wove between his boots, chasing a fallen leaf from a potted plant near the dais. A cough broke the daydream. His oldest council advisor stood at the foot of the throne, arms folded, watching the way a hawk watches a limping rabbit. "You were gone again, my lord," the advisor said. "Your eyes drift like a boy's. A ruler who cannot hold his own hall cannot hold his crown." He let the words hang. "Perhaps the council should ask whether you still wish to sit here at all." Dan's stomach dropped. The advisor had guessed the truth. If the council heard it, they would strip him of his throne on their terms, name a regent, and lock the gates against any quiet life. His secret was a door he wanted to open himself, not one they could break down. "I was considering the harvest tithes," Dan said. His voice held steady, but his hands did not. The advisor stepped closer. "You were considering nothing that concerns this hall. I have watched you fade for a year. Say the word and I will summon the full council this hour." Dan looked at the cat, then at the tall doors. He thought of Gareth waiting outside the keep, the disgraced knight who had heard every one of Dan's hopes without once mocking them. Gareth had told him plainly: your enemies decide your fate only if you let them speak first. So Dan spoke first. "Summon them," he said, and stood. "But not to judge me. I will save them the trouble." The advisor blinked. This was not the answer he had baited. "I am tired," Dan went on. "I have ruled without wanting to for longer than I can bear. You are right that I drift. So I will not hide it and let you use it. I intend to abdicate." The hall went silent. The advisor's smug face cracked. He had planned to expose a weak king. He had not planned for the king to expose himself and steal the weapon from his hand. "You cannot simply walk out," the advisor said, recovering. "There is no heir. The keep needs a successor, and the law demands one before any crown leaves your head." Dan felt the first true breath he had drawn in months. The threat was dead. But a new wall stood in its place. "Then find me a successor," Dan said. "Because I am leaving whether you like it or not." He walked from the throne, and for the first time the daydream felt like a plan.