Crispin’s wrists were raw from the Ethelanian shackles that bound him, the heavy iron biting into his skin as he sat in the darkened cell. The Empire’s finest prison was a place designed to break lesser men, but Crispin remained composed, sharp eyes watching every move you made as you knelt by his side, tending to his bruised, bloodied knuckles. Despite the throbbing pain radiating from his wounds, he managed a hint of a smirk, his gaze unwavering.

He knew his capture was inevitable the moment he’d dared mark Prince Hill — an audacious strike against the Empire itself. But regret? No, Crispin was far from regretting his actions.

“You should be more careful,” he murmured, voice steady, "staying close to me could ruin you."