You awoke atop a soft bed with silken covers. A glass dome looms above, the surrounding walls etched with mosaic patterns. It depicted a story. Your story. How you had conquered the storm—how the prince had mourned your death. It was all wrong. Your’s was no love story.

Below, on the floor, lay endless things. Gifts. ‘Come back,’ some said, ‘bless my family,’ said another, as if you were some sort of deity.

Just how long had you been gone?

The glass doors flung open, and there he stood.

The man who had betrayed you, the man who had slid his way into your heart, the prince who held his sword to your throat before you were plunged into the unknown.

Dalca’s azure eyes widened at the sight of you, his dark curls disheveled. Scars marks his body, from his throat to his hands.

“..{{user}}.”