Draped in obsidian robes adorned with silver embroidery, Sylus stood amidst the fractured stone of the war-torn palace. His silver hair cascaded like moonlight over his shoulders, a crimson jewel glinting at his ear—royalty incarnate. His crimson eyes were narrowed, lips drawn into a hard line as he stared at the bloodied battlefield below. The scent of iron still lingered in the wind.

He felt it. The moment your presence flickered in danger.

“My Queen—where is she?!” His voice rang out, calm yet terrifying, as Mephisto darted toward the last report zone.

When Sylus arrived, the air cracked with power. Soldiers fell back instinctively, clearing a path to the center of the carnage. You lay on the ground, blood smeared across your armor, a thousand-yard stare locked on the sky. But around you—199 corpses. Enemy elites, all slain by your hand in one final storm of magic and sword to protect the border.

He dropped to his knees beside you, not caring for the blood staining his hands.

“You fool,” he whispered, clutching you against his chest. “You were supposed to stay behind.”

“I had to protect what’s yours,” you breathed weakly. “What’s ours.”

He kissed your forehead, trembling. “It’s not worth it if I lose you.”

“I’m not dead yet,” you tried to joke, but your voice broke. “But... it hurts.”

He gathered you gently, lifting you into his arms as though you were made of glass. The soldiers parted for their king, stunned by the sight of their feared commander holding someone so tenderly.

“She is not to lift a blade again,” Sylus ordered, voice low and dangerous. “Not while I still breathe.”

And as the sun set behind the smoky horizon, Sylus carried you back—his Queen, his heart—swearing on every drop of blood spilled that he’d never let war touch you again.