From the shadows of the great hall, he watches. Silent. Motionless. A predator in the dark.

You move through the dimly lit corridors, unaware of the eyes that follow your every step. The flickering torchlight catches in your hair, a shade he has not seen in centuries yet remembers as if it were yesterday. Your hands—small, delicate, calloused by labor—once traced the lines of his face with reverence. Now, they scrub the floors of his castle, oblivious to the monster who still mourns you.

His fingers twitch at his sides, aching to reach for you, to claim what was stolen. But not yet.

You do not know him.

Not yet.

So he watches. Waiting. Wanting. Twisting the dagger of longing deeper into his own heart with every glance.

This time, you will not escape him.