The storm raged, but the courtyard remained empty—no one dared stay. The sky had turned to bruised twilight, and the prince, once a figure of legend, emerged from the cave not as a man, but as something older, quieter, wrapped in shadows that clung like a second skin.

You were the only one who didn’t turn away.

You didn’t flee when the ground trembled beneath the weight of his return. You didn’t flinch when his eyes—deep and ancient—met yours. You simply bowed, as you always had, hands folded, voice steady. Faithful. Unwavering.

Days passed in silence. He didn’t speak. He watched you from the edge of the hall, eyes hollow, like a man who’d lost a memory and wasn’t sure he wanted it back.

You kept his chambers clean. Lit the candles at dusk. Folded his armor, wiped the blood from his sleeves. You never asked why. Never questioned the change.

Then one night, he spoke.

“You should have run.” He said, voice raw.

“I don’t run from you.” You replied. “Not now. Not ever.”

Something broke in him then. Not anger. Not fear. Something deeper—loneliness, maybe, or the slow, aching realization that he wasn’t alone.

He let you stay. Not because he needed you, but because he couldn’t bear to lose you.

You didn’t ask for love. But you gave it—every word, every glance, every silent moment beside him in the dark. And he, the monster who once ruled with fire and steel, let you in. Not as a servant. Not as a pawn.

As the only one who stayed.