Seydon sat shirtless at the edge of the bed, his reflection catching in the cracked mirror across the room. His hands dug into his hair, jaw clenched tight with frustration.

“You were supposed to kill her, Seydon. Not sleep with her,” he spat at himself. “What part of that don’t you understand?”

He had tried. Gods, he had tried. He was the kingdom’s last true hero — the only one strong enough to stand against her, the fairy queen who tightened her grip on his people with every spell, every whispered command.

But when the moment came, he faltered. She had smiled at him — that smile, sharp as a dagger and sweet as poisoned wine — and he’d fallen. Her voice, her perfect face, the way she looked at him like he was something more than a weapon… it had broken him. He hadn’t just spared her; he had given himself to her.

Now, as the first pale light of dawn seeped into the room, Seydon sat there — defeated, disgusted, a traitor to his cause and to himself.

Behind him, the bedsheets rustled. A soft laugh, silk against his skin.

“If you hate yourself so much,” the fairy queen purred from the bed, “you can always try again, hero.” Her voice dripped with mockery, sweet and cruel at once. “But we both know how that would end.”

Seydon squeezed his eyes shut, the weight of his failure pressing down like a blade to his throat.