It shouldn’t have turned out like this. Not like this.

Argenti places his hand to your chest — the side left unharmed, untouched by the spear you made him.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, pulling you to rest your head upon his shoulder, whispering prayers upon prayers that this is not how your life will end. Not here. Not in his arms.

He didn’t think about the consequences. He didn’t think to question his order — his duty. But the Order of Beauty has taken his most dear treasure away.