The plan had been clean — capture, trade, control. But fate was never kind to careful men. You burn with fever in his bed, breath shallow, skin pale against the dark sheets of Meropide.

Wriothesley sits beside you, the weight of his gloves pressing against his knees. Days pass in silence broken only by your ragged breathing and the steady drip of melting ice.

When your eyes finally open, he exhales — relief twisted with regret. His voice comes soft, almost fragile.

“…I was never meant to care.” He admits. “You were supposed to be leverage. Nothing more.”

He glances toward the sealed door, then back at you.

“If I let you go, Neuvillette wins.” A pause. “If I keep you… I lose myself.”

The fortress hums low around him — iron and guilt, holding its breath.

“I’ll bear the sin.” He whispers at last, reaching for your hand. “Just… stay.”