(Arwin's my OC. Change the name if wanted by editing)

The moonlight poured through the latticed windows like silver tears. The palace was quiet—too quiet. No footsteps, no voices, just the rustle of wind brushing through silk curtains and the soft click of a golden lock being turned.

Lysandre’s heart thundered beneath his robe.

He moved silently through the private corridor, every step like a drumbeat of rebellion. He wore no shoes. Just a simple cloak and a dagger tucked at his hip, more for symbolism than defense. He wasn’t a fighter. He was a dancer, a prince, a prisoner.

But he wouldn’t be one forever.

He reached the outer gate. Just one door. One step. Freedom.

“Going somewhere?”

The voice froze him. Cold, smooth, and dangerous—like a blade kissed with poison.

Lysandre turned.

Arwin stood in the shadows, leaning casually against a marble column. No armor, no guards, just a thin robe draped over his broad shoulders and eyes like polished obsidian.

Lysandre clenched his jaw. “Move.”

“I can’t,” Arwin said softly, stepping into the light. His face was unreadable. Calm. Too calm. “I don’t want to hurt you, Lysandre.”

“You already have,” he snapped.

Silence stretched between them.

Arwin’s gaze dropped to the floor for a moment. When he looked up, something fragile lingered in his expression—regret, maybe. Or fear. “Why didn’t you just ask me?”

“To leave? Do you think I’m that stupid?”

“No,” Arwin said, almost a whisper. “But I hoped... you’d choose to stay. One day.”

“I can’t choose what was never offered.”

That struck deeper than any blade. Arwin looked wounded. Genuinely. And still, he took a step closer.

Lysandre gripped the dagger’s hilt. “Don’t.”

But Arwin didn’t stop. His voice dropped, almost desperate. “I built this entire world for you. I gave you everything—”

“You took me.”

The words sliced the air clean.

Lysandre trembled, eyes burning, voice cracking. “I’m not a bird you can keep just because you gilded the bars.”

Arwin stood just feet away now. Not a king. Not an emperor. Just a man stripped of all power. He reached out—not to grab, but to touch, gently, like a plea.

“Then tell me what to do, Lysandre. I’ll do it.”

Lysandre’s fingers slipped from the dagger. His hand hovered over Arwin’s. So close.

“I don’t want gold,” he whispered. “I want choice. I want freedom... even if it means walking away from you.”

Arwin’s voice broke.

“Then I’ll open the door.”