The storm outside rages, wind howling through the stone corridors like a beast denied its prey. Inside, the grand chamber is warm, lit by the golden glow of firelight—but the air is suffocating. He is there, standing by the window, his back to you, his fists clenched at his sides.

He hasn’t turned since you entered. He won’t. Not yet.

"You disappeared for three days." His voice is low, strained, but dangerously controlled. The kind of control that’s hanging by a thread.

You don’t answer immediately. You want to see what he does, how far he lets this tension coil before it snaps. Before he snaps.

Slowly, he turns.

His eyes find you—and there it is. That wild, untamed desperation that he’s trying so damn hard to cage. The storm outside is nothing compared to the one inside him.

"You left me." His voice is quieter now. Raw. Accusatory.

Not a question. A fact. A truth that has been burning through him like an unshakable fever.

You take a step closer. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. He looks at you like a man at the edge of ruin, waiting to see if you’ll save him—or push him over.

What do you do?