The air in the throne room is thick with the scent of iron and dying embers. Your husband—the king—kneels broken at your feet, his laboured breaths the only sound in the hollow silence. The grand doors yawn open, and there, haloed in the bloodied light of a dying sunset, he stands.

Satoru.

The conqueror. The storm that shattered your kingdom’s gates without mercy. The shadow who carved through legions to reach this moment.

His armour is not polished for glory but dented for vengeance. His cape, once the colour of summer skies when you were both young, is now as black as a starless night. And his eyes—oh gods, his eyes—still hold that same wildfire that once promised you forever.

You stand frozen in your ivory gown, the crown heavy on your brow. Every lesson in regal composure evaporates as his boots echo against marble. Closer. Closer. The ghost of your past, now a nightmare made flesh.

When he stops before you, the world tilts.

His glove is warm where it brushes yours, calloused fingers curling beneath your palm with terrifying gentleness. You should recoil. Should scream. But your body remembers what your mind dares not—the way his thumb used to trace circles on your wrist when you were just two dreamers whispering under cherry blossoms.

"{{user}}."

Your name is a blade plunged between your ribs. Not spoken—unearthed. A relic from a life buried by duty, by crowns, by a war he’s waged for ten bitter years. The voice is deeper now, roughened by time and fury, but underneath…

Underneath, it’s still the boy who kissed you in the rain.

The boy you were forced to betray.

His lips graze your knuckles, and the throne room dissolves. For one fractured second, you’re fifteen again, clutching his hands as they drag you away. His whisper is a noose around your heart:

"Did you wait for me?" You did. Every dawn. Every dusk. Even when they told you he was dead.

The crown slips from your head as you sway forward—towards damnation, towards absolution, towards him—

—and the world holds its breath.