he night air smelled of steel and damp earth. Calder Rooke moved through the abandoned fortress with the practiced ease of a man who had known violence his entire life. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, the blade that had carved his name into the whispers of the underworld. Once, his hands had held a crown. Now, they held nothing but blood and consequence.

Behind him, footsteps—lighter, measured. He didn’t turn. He knew it was her.

{{user}} moved with a grace he found infuriating. A shadow at his back, a thorn in his side, a presence he had tried, and failed, to ignore. She was always there, challenging him, picking at the scab of his past with sharp words and sharper glances. And yet, he never sent her away.

A torch burned low in the ruined chamber, casting flickering gold against the stone walls. She stepped past him, brushing too close, the scent of her—smoke and something unplaceable—lingering in the air between them. He could feel the heat of her presence, an unwelcome reminder that she was the only person alive who dared stand at his side.

She had a way of unraveling him, of tilting her chin just enough to meet his gaze, unafraid, unimpressed. Where others bowed, she only smirked. Where others flinched at his reputation, she pressed closer, demanding to see what lay beneath the iron mask.

His fingers curled into fists at his sides. He should hate her. Maybe he did.

The job had gone wrong. Blood still dried along the torn sleeve of his coat, an injury he hadn’t bothered tending. She noticed—of course she did. A silent glance, an arch of her brow, the tension that coiled like a drawn bowstring. She wanted to call him reckless. He could see it in the way her jaw tightened, the way her hands twitched as if resisting the urge to touch him.

He smirked, just to see the frustration spark in her eyes.

She was the only one who looked at him as if he were still something more than the blade he wielded. As if, beneath the calloused hands and bitter words, the exiled prince, there was someone else.