The hall was golden with candlelight, laughter swelling like a tide around him. They toasted her name again and again, the promise of her hand binding her to another man who was not him.

Angus could barely hear it. His chest was tight beneath his armor, every polished plate suddenly suffocating.

He had been her shadow once, when they were children—running barefoot through the orchard, her laughter spilling like bells as he stumbled after her. He remembered the day he swore his sword would always be hers. But he had never had a crown to offer, only calloused hands and a heart that belonged to her before he even knew what love was.

Now she sat at the dais, jeweled and untouchable, her smile trained toward a man who would one day call her wife. She looked radiant. She looked doomed. She looked lost.

And beside her — the prince, {{user}}.

He was everything Angus was not. Tall and striking in velvet and gold, his laughter rich, his words smooth. He had a crown waiting for him by right, and he wore it already in the way people leaned toward him, in the ease with which he held her hand.

The prince turned, perhaps by chance, perhaps not, and their eyes met. For a heartbeat, Angus froze. The prince’s mouth curved in the faintest smile — not mocking, not cruel, but knowing.

He couldn’t bear it.

Rising from the bench, his chair scraping against the stone, he muttered something about duty, about fresh air. None of them noticed. Why would they? He was only the knight. The sword at her side, never the hand in hers.

The corridor beyond was colder, quieter. He pressed a hand to the stone wall, steadying himself. His throat burned. Gods, if only I had been born anything but what I am. If only I had been worthy.