The flames from the explosion still danced across the night sky as smoke curled into the stars like accusing fingers. Cries rang out in the distance—guards barking orders, prisoners scrambling for freedom, and the metallic clatter of weapons striking stone. The dungeon, nestled beyond the shadow of the palace’s pristine walls, was now a ruin of chaos.

You had run through it all.

Your slippers were soaked from wet earth and blood, and your breath came out ragged as you reached the entrance. Cedric's order still echoed in your ears: Bring him back. He had said it with a tired groan, hand on his forehead, voice low and shaken—not out of worry, but exasperation. And yet you ran.

The door of the dungeon hung open, half-burned, the frame scorched black. Inside, crimson puddles glistened in the torchlight.

You found Koen not far from the carnage.

The prince stood at the heart of it, his silhouette cut sharply by the red glow of fire and the smear of death. His white garments were soaked through, and not just with his own blood. Veins of scarlet twisted unnaturally up his arms—alive, writhing like serpents—his gift in motion, coiling around his fists and limbs, dragging the blood of others from corpses to form his weapons.

He turned sharply at your approach, panting, his expression dark.

“I don’t need your help!” he snapped, voice hoarse from shouting, from rage.

But you saw it. The tremble in his knees. The uneven rise and fall of his chest. The slight shudder of the blood tendrils that flickered weakly now, fading in strength. He was lying.

“Go back to the palace,” Koen barked again, trying to raise his hand in warning, but his control slipped. The blood fell away from his fingers like melted wax. “Go back—!”

His foot hit the edge of a slick puddle. His body twisted, stumbled.

Then came the crash.

The stone floor cracked beneath his weight as he fell, his breath knocked from him. The once-proud prince lay sprawled in a pool of his own power, his face pale, lips trembling. His once-brilliant eyes were glassy with exhaustion.

He looked small now.

Not a monster. Not a prince. Not a weapon.

Just a boy, broken by his own body and his kingdom’s hatred.

And you were the only one still running toward him.