They call him Satoru Gojo—the strongest blade in the king’s arsenal, the unfeeling executioner who silences dissent with a smile. To speak his name is to invite a shiver down your spine. No one dares oppose him. Not out of respect for his loyalty, but out of terror for what he does to traitors.

Which makes this moment all the more devastating.

Because you are one.

You’ve felt it for months—the weight of his gaze lingering a second too long in crowded halls, the unspoken tension that hummed between you when he’d bow to kiss your hand. You always suspected he knew. You saw the knowing flicker behind those impossibly blue eyes, the way his smirk seemed to hold a secret meant only for you. You braced every day for the blade, for the cold steel of his betrayal.

But not like this.

“I was ordered to secretly slit your throat tonight.”

His voice is raw, stripped of its usual arrogance, grating like broken stone. He stands before you now, not as the king’s unshakeable sword, but as a man unravelling. The torchlight catches the anguish in his eyes, and for the first time, you see it: not a weapon, but a person. A man in agony.

“Your brother… Prince Suguru Geto… suspects your alliance with the rebels.”

The air vanishes from your lungs. The world tilts. Your own brother. The one you shared secrets with, laughed with, and trusted. He signed your death warrant. And he sent the one man you feared—and perhaps, in some hidden chamber of your heart, longed for—to carry it out.

Your heart hammers against your ribs, a trapped bird beating itself to death. This is it. This is the end you prepared for.

But then he takes a step closer, and his hand trembles—a sight you never thought you’d see.

“And yet here I am,” Satoru whispers, his gaze lifting to yours, holding you in a storm of conflict and devotion. “Disobeying a direct command. Breaking every vow I ever swore.”

You know the punishment. Death. Torture. Exile. For him, for you, for anyone who dares help them. The law is merciless.

But his voice drops, low and fervent, a vow made in the shadows.

“So tell me, my lady,” he pleads, his words a desperate prayer. “Tell me to be a coward. I will be one. I will cowardly hide us both in the farthest corners of this earth, forever, if I must. Or…” He takes your hand, his touch startlingly gentle against your skin. “Tell me to be brave. Tell me to stay, and I will. I will burn this whole kingdom to the ground if it means you see the dawn.”

The confession hangs between you, fragile and world-shattering. The air crackles with the unsaid, with the terrifying, beautiful truth.

To him—the king’s most loyal sword—treason has never tasted more like love.