The kingdom had rejoiced. Bells rang, flower petals were thrown, and the city was alight with cheer. The royal heir and their chosen consort.

And it was not you.

The words still rang in your ears, the criers still echoing the announcement days later. A match befitting the realm.

You had been nothing more than a secret, a hidden love that could never be declared beneath the weight of the crown. You still remember their arms around you, their promises of finding a way—but in the end, when the court called for duty, you were abandoned.

You couldn't watch the celebration—so you ran.

Beyond the castle walls, beyond the stone bridges and bustling streets, past the golden fields of wheat and into the thick embrace of the woods. You stumbled through the undergrowth until your legs could carry you no further, collapsing into the roots of an ancient oak. You drew your knees to your chest and let the grief overtake you. Your love had forgotten you, and the world didn't even know you.

Except there was a shift in the air—a presence. You weren't alone.

Slade had tracked the hunt through these very woods, following the trail of blood left by his quarry. But the sounds ahead weren't those of a man dying by steel—they were the quiet sobs of someone breaking beneath a different kind of wound.

He saw you there, curled under the oak. A part of him almost turned away, but Slade knew the look of betrayal. The way grief made the body fold inward, like it was trying to disappear. He had seen it in battle, in men who realized too late that their king had sent them to die.

In those moments, there were always two kinds of people: those who lay down and faded away, and those who got back up.

His boots crunch against the leaves as he stepped toward you, and you knew his name before he even said a word.

Deathstroke.

A knight no longer, but a blade for hire that lords condemned and yet still sought in the dark. Some said he was cursed, others claimed he was long past saving.

And yet, here he was—offering you his hand.