The war is over, they say.

Banners burned, blood soaked into the mud outside agincourt, and bodies buried deep enough to forget. But peace, in truth, is a quiet lie told by frightened men.

He sits across from you now in the dim of his chamber, the fire low. Armor discarded. Crown abandoned on the table between you like a weight neither of you are willing to touch.

His tunic is stained with something that might be wine or might be blood—he hasn’t changed. Hasn’t spoken much since he returned.

His fingers twitch where they rest on the table. Yours almost reach across to still them, but don’t.

“They think I was born for this,” he says finally, voice rasped, low. “That the war was inevitable. That I wanted it.”

He looks at you now, and there’s no king behind his eyes—just a boy who has seen too much and slept too little.

“I was so certain of the right thing,” he murmurs. “and now I don’t even know if peace tastes any different than ash.”

You sit beside him instead of answering, and this time you do reach out. Your hand brushes his, steadying.

The fire cracks between you, casting his profile in a molten shadow. He watches the flames like they’re whispering answers he’s too tired to interpret.

His voice breaks the silence again, soft as confession:

“Would you have stopped me, if you could have?”