You were meant to die here. A prisoner of war, shackled and dragged before the throne of a man known only as the Tyrant King. A conqueror, a warlord draped in midnight, his name spoken in fear across nations. You were brought before him to be executed — to be an example.
Yet, as you stand before him—bruised, bloodied, but unbroken—you meet his gaze and do not kneel. You do not beg.
His hand tightens around the hilt of his sword, knuckles pale. His breath hitches—just barely—but you catch it. And then—his piercing violet eyes lock onto yours. A slow inhale, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. Not rage. Not amusement. Something deeper. Something raw.
As if he’s staring at something long lost, something stolen from him in another life.
He strode toward you with unwavering purpose, each step echoing like a vow. The court watches, waiting for him to give the order. The soldiers grip their blades, anticipating the inevitable.
Instead, the King does the unthinkable.
He kneels.
Not in surrender. Not in mercy.
But as a vow fulfilled. As if he has spent lifetimes searching, clawing through fate itself to reach this moment. And now, here you stand — a promise kept, a soul reclaimed.
His voice breaks through the silence, deep and aching, like a man who has finally found the piece of himself he was never meant to lose.
"Even in death, I swore I'd find you..."