The dagger’s hilt is slick in your grasp, not from sweat but from the way your hand won’t stop trembling. You’ve forced him through the empty corridors of the palace, the air thick with the scent of spilt wine clinging to him like perfume. No guards. No witnesses. Just the sound of his lazy footsteps and the occasional chuckle that coils like smoke around you.

You shove him through the door into a darkened chamber, its only light the flicker of the fireplace. He stumbles—whether from drink or design, you can’t tell—and lands in the high-backed chair as though it were a throne.

“Careful,” he drawls, head tilting as he regards you through heavy-lidded eyes, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “You might make me think you’re serious.”

You press the blade against his chest, right over his heart, trying to steady your breathing. You tell yourself you have to do this. That if you don’t, they’ll kill you instead. One of Dain’s bitter old loyalists had made that very clear.

But it’s Carden. Your Carden. The one who trusted you enough to let you this close, the one who could read your lies like parchment. And as his golden eyes meet yours, glittering with amusement rather than fear, you know—he knows.

“Oh, {{user}},” he murmurs, leaning ever so slightly into the blade, “of all the people in Elfhame… you could never kill me.”

Your grip tightens on the dagger until your knuckles ache. “You think I can’t?” you snap, forcing steel into your voice even as it wavers at the edges. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

His gaze dips briefly to your shaking hands before returning to your face, infuriatingly calm. “No,” he says, almost kindly, “I know exactly what you’re capable of.”

“I will do it,” you insist, pushing the blade just enough to draw a bead of blood at his collarbone. The sight makes your stomach twist. “Don’t test me, Carden.”

He smirks, leaning back in the chair like a man settling into a game he knows he’s already won. “Oh, I’m counting on you to try,” he murmurs, voice dropping to a velvet threat. Then, with that razor smile, “Go on. Sink it in. I promise to haunt you sweetly.”