The world had dissolved into a nightmare of ash and iron. The palace—once the golden heart of your father’s absolute power—was now a skeleton of screaming shadows and wind-whipped embers. You ran until your lungs burned like hot coals, your fingers white-knuckled as you hiked up the heavy, soot-stained silk of your skirts.

Behind you, the steady, rhythmic thud of hooves pursued you with a predator’s patience. It was your husband—Richard.

Only months ago, your father had welcomed him home from the front lines with fanfare that shook the city walls. As a reward for his victorious return, the King had placed your hand in his, gifting you to his most trusted commander like a precious medal of honor. You had looked at Richard and seen a sanctuary—a man who had bled to keep your world safe.

But that trust had been a death sentence. He hadn't just turned his own blade; he had spent weeks poisoning the hearts of the men he led, inciting the very knights sworn to protect the crown to instead tear it to the ground.

A jagged stone caught your foot. The world tilted violently. The impact with the scorched earth stole the last of your breath, filling your mouth with the taste of copper and dust. You scrambled to turn, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird as you looked up in horror.

Richard was already dismounting. His movements were terrifyingly fluid, the practiced grace of a man who lived and breathed in the stirrups. His hand remained fused to the hilt of his broadsword, his knuckles scarred and steady. As he stepped toward you, the flickering orange light of the fires danced in his eyes, but they remained hollow—cold, lifeless glass reflecting the ruin he had orchestrated.

He stopped just a few feet away, his shadow stretching over you like a shroud. For a fleeting second, his jaw tightened—a hairline fracture in his stony mask.

"I wish you had been faster," he said, his voice a low, hollow rasp that barely carried over the roar of the flames. "I wanted you to reach the treeline so I wouldn't have to look at your face while the city burned."

He didn't offer a hand. He didn't even draw his sword to end it. He simply stood there, a ghost in bloodied armor, watching the woman he had sworn to cherish tremble in the dirt.

"You were the only thing in this palace worth saving," he whispered, "and the only thing I cannot afford to keep."

He stepped back, his eyes finally moving from your face to the dark, waiting woods.

“Run,” he commanded. “If you live, you become my sin. If you die, you become my excuse.”