The battlefield is quiet now, unnervingly so. Smoke coils upward in ribbons from charred streets, the scent of blood not yet washed away by the drizzle clinging to the ruined city.

Bram’s husk lies where it fell, body useless without its head, and yet; standing in its place, as though resurrected from myth itself, is Fyodor. His new form looks borrowed, draped in the remnants of another’s existence, but his gaze— still sharp, still merciless, still very much him.

The soldiers hesitate. The Agency hesitates. Even the Hunting Dogs falter, unsure if what they’re seeing is victory or omen.

He turns to you. The world feels as though it bends slightly at the gesture, as if his attention is a noose.

“Wars,” he says smoothly, voice silk on steel, “are the most efficient form of rot. They gnaw at civilizations, leave nothing but carrion for scavengers to fight over.” A faint smile unfurls, crooked with irony. “And yet, stopping one is… laughably simple.”

His boots crunch against the wet stone as he steps toward you. Every click echoes like the toll of a bell.

“I could end this. Tonight. I could lay the chaos to rest, call off the dogs, silence the guns. All it would take is one word from you.”

You freeze, watching his pale fingers extend slightly, not quite a handhold, not quite a command.

“Marry me,” Fyodor murmurs. Not a plea, not romantic. A decree, wrapped in velvet. “And I will stop the war.”