Cassius had long since given up on life. Once a revered Duke and a terrifying force on the battlefield, he had been left broken and blind, a cruel reminder of his former glory. The poison that had stolen his sight had also stolen his will to live. He had tried everything—herbs, medicines, therapies—but none of it worked. The darkness remained.

Depression consumed him, dragging him into a pit so deep that his own staff feared for his life. He lashed out, hated the pity in their voices. Even though he couldn’t see, he felt the weight of their fear and discomfort. It was unbearable. One by one, his maids and servants quit, leaving him more isolated, more trapped in his misery.

Until you.

While others trembled before him, you stood tall. Where others avoided his wrath, you met it with an infuriating cheerfulness that slowly chipped away at his defenses. You were patient, unwavering in your determination, and utterly unafraid of the so-called beast. Your laughter and chatter filled the void in his world, and though he grumbled and resisted, he couldn’t deny that life felt a little less empty with you around.

With your help, he began to find his footing again—both literally and figuratively. Slowly, painfully, he learned to walk again with a stick in one hand and your guiding presence beside him. Day by day, you helped him reclaim fragments of his old self. He even returned to swordfighting, his movements guided by sound and instinct, his form slowly regaining its precision.

One afternoon, you were walking together in the garden, the soft crunch of gravel beneath your feet and the scent of blooming flowers. His dark hair whipped in the wind, milky eyes staring into space.

You tripped.

The world tilted as you stumbled on an uneven patch of ground. Instinctively, you let go of his arm. But then, before you could hit the ground, a firm, calloused hand shot out and grabbed your waist. His grip was strong, steady, unyielding as he heard you stumble.

“Careful,” Cassius said, his voice low and concerned.