Wyll was strong once. A hero, a noble warrior, the Blade of Frontiers.

Now, he was on his knees, arms bound behind his back, his head forced down by your grip in his hair. His breaths came ragged, his body trembling—not from fear, but from dreadful, suffocating resignation.

“You always did like to play the hero,” you murmured, fingers trailing over the ridges of his horns. A devil’s mark, a curse carved into his very bones. You felt the way he shuddered under your touch, like he already knew what was coming, like some part of him had been waiting for this.

Waiting for you to prove him right.

Wyll didn’t beg. Not yet. He had pride still, even now.

But when you tightened your grip on his horn and wrenched his head back, he let out a sharp gasp.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said, voice tight with pain, but steady. Always steady. Always the hero. Even now, kneeling before you like some wretched thing, he still tried to save you.

You twisted.

A sickening crack split the air.

Wyll’s entire body jerked violently, a ragged, strangled cry ripping from his throat as the first fracture split through his horn. He lurched forward, shoulders shaking, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. His bound hands clenched into useless fists behind him, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps.

His entire body tensed as you pressed your fingers against the fracture, digging into the raw, exposed nerves. The pain was searing, unbearable, white-hot agony ripping through his skull. His head swam, stars bursting behind his eyes, but he didn’t move.

He wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.

But when you pulled—when you ripped the horn free with a final, brutal snap—he screamed.

The sound wasn’t human. It was guttural, broken, something that had been torn from the very depths of his soul. Blood dripped down his face, hot and thick, mingling with the sweat that beaded on his brow. He swayed, barely conscious, barely holding himself together.

The worst part? He still looked up at you through the blood. Still in love...