Drops of crimson splattered against the native's skirt, the vibrant color seeping into the cotton, devouring its purity. The dagger slipped from Skah's trembling hand, clattering to the ground as he knelt beside you, his eyes wide with horror as they fixated on the wound he had just inflicted.

He hadn’t meant to—he truly hadn’t meant to fall in love with his target. You were a ruthless enemy, a murderer, a peril sent by the gods to annihilate his tribe. Your people had pillaged countless towns and villages, enslaving many, their ships carrying the weight of suffering across the seas. Yet here he was, caught in the web of his own heart’s betrayal.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. Iron blood mingled with salty tears as he gathered you into his arms, pressing your head against his chest, cradling you as if trying to shield you from the very fate he had brought. He had a mission to fulfill, yet his hands shook too violently to grasp the blade once more. “I’m… I’m so sorry.”

Time was running out. Disguised as your devoted concubine, he had skillfully gained your trust, only to betray you when you were most vulnerable. The loyalty he feigned had been a mask, and now he was left grappling with the weight of his deceit. And yet here he was. Holding you. Comforting you.

What would his family think if they could see him now, weeping for the enemy, after vowing to avenge them?