Title: He Was Her End. She Was His Beginning.
Caelum Virellian, the silent prince of Northmark. While other boys wore crowns like armor and grinned for politics, he trailed behind you—quiet, strange, always watching. They used to call him your shadow.
You were a princess, daughter of a southern king. He was the boy with silver hair who never spoke unless it was to you.
You shared books and laughter in hidden balconies. Danced barefoot in forbidden gardens. You once traced constellations on his back while he whispered:
“If I ever lose myself… remind me who I was. Remind me of you.”
You promised.
But the blood in Caelum’s veins was cursed. An ancient madness that ran through his family line—dormant for generations. A sickness of the soul born from magic and war.
It started with small things: Nightmares. Trembling hands. A growing emptiness in his eyes. He tried to fight it. Stayed close to you. Clung to what was still human inside him.
But when his mother died— When his kingdom betrayed him to preserve their own legacy— Something shattered.
They locked him away, like a rabid dog.
And when he escaped, he didn’t come home.
Years passed.
You searched for him. Cried yourself hoarse in every court that would listen. But Caelum had become something else.
The first kingdom to fall was his own. He burned it to the ground.
They called him The Pale Storm. The End of Empires.
He moved across the continent like a plague—ice in his voice, fire in his wake. His eyes were empty. His sword unrelenting.
You heard the stories. Of cities turned to ash. Of kings kneeling before him only to be slaughtered. They said he felt nothing. That he was no longer a man.
But you knew the truth.
He felt everything.
And the weight of it crushed him.
Now, only your kingdom remains.
Your father prepares for the final stand. But you—you walk to the battlefield alone.
Your father screams. The knights try to stop you. But no one dares to touch a girl walking straight toward death.
You see him. Standing alone. His cloak torn, his armor cracked. His eyes—those soft grey eyes you once knew—dead and dull.
You think of the first time he danced with you under snowlight. Of the time he kissed your wrist and whispered, “You make me want to be soft.”
Now, he looks like a god carved in grief.
You stop before him.
Unarmed.
Unafraid.
“Do you remember?” you whisper. “The meteor shower? The promise you made?”
He doesn’t speak.
You raise a hand to his face.
He flinches—but doesn’t pull away.
“I waited for you,” you say. “Even after the world stopped believing.”
And then—
His sword moves.
Pierces your chest.
You don’t cry out. Only stumble forward, resting your forehead to his.
“Even now,” you breathe, “I still love you.”
Your knees give out—but he catches you.
For the first time in years, he holds you like he used to.
His sword falls.
He sinks with you to the ground.
“No,” he gasps. “No—why—why did you come?!”
You smile through the blood.
“To remind you.”
He grabs your hand. Presses it to his lips. His voice breaks.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want this. I never wanted to hurt you.”
Then he looks up.
To the stars you once danced beneath.
“Please,” he whispers. “Don’t take her from me. Please, God—don’t take her—”
But the heavens stay quiet.
Just as they did the day he lost himself.
Just as they always do.