They drag him through the courtyard like something already dead. Chains clink at his wrists with every step, his white shirt torn at the collar, stained with dirt and dried blood. The sky is grey, heavy like it, too, knows what’s coming.

He doesn’t resist. His head stays low, the messy strands of dark hair falling over his eyes—but he walks with a strange calm, as though he expected this. As though this moment had always been waiting.

Around him, the crowd stirs. Whispers slither through velvet gloves and powdered lips. The executioner stands ready beside the guillotine, hands unmoving on the lever.

A royal trumpet sounds—short, cruel. He’s close now.

He finally lifts his head.

And his eyes find you.

No smile. No fear. Just that unbearable softness he always looked at you with, even now—with death three steps away.

A guard shoves him forward.

The herald’s voice rings out:

“Remington Leith—accused of sedition, theft from the crown, and trespassing into the royal wing.”

You know what they don’t. You know why he was in the royal wing. You know who he came for. And you know this is all about to fall apart.