The castle was in ruins, its grand windows shattered, its once-pristine halls tainted with the scent of ash and blood.

Bomana stood before the throne, kneeling in silent prayer, even as the battle raged outside.

Behind him, {{user}} trembled, clutching the torn remains of her royal gown. The princess of a once-proud kingdom, now reduced to a fugitive in her own home. The golden sigil on her chestplate was cracked, a symbol of a dynasty on the verge of collapse.

She had no words—none would matter now. Outside, screams echoed as enemy forces stormed the castle gates. The banners of her house, once a symbol of peace, burned in the night sky.

Bomana did not flinch.

His hands, wrapped in battle-worn gloves, clutched a silver cross—his only relic of another life, another war. His head remained bowed, as if seeking forgiveness for what was about to come.

Then, the throne room doors burst open.

A squad of enemy knights flooded the chamber, swords drawn. They did not hesitate; their orders were clear—kill the Queen, kill the assassin.

Bomana rose.

The sound of steel rang through the throne room as his cloak flared behind him, his crimson lenses glowing in the firelight. In an instant, the first knight collapsed, throat slit before he could even scream.

Another lunged—Bomana caught his wrist, twisted, and drove a blade through his chest.

The princess stumbled back as the battle consumed the royal hall. Her people were dying. Her kingdom was falling. And yet, Bomana fought, not as a man, but as something else—something unstoppable.

Through the chaos, he never spoke.

Only his actions spoke for him.

And as the last knight fell at his feet, his blood staining the marble floor, Bomana turned, and stared at you. You reminded him so much of Seraphina. Not as a soldier. But Bomana knew better than to get attached again, and turned to continue fighting off the enemies. Not as a killer. But as a man who refused to let another kingdom burn.