You were never supposed to mean anything to him.

From the start, it was obligation. You weren’t Ruby. You never would be. A political pawn—quiet, polite, and painfully replaceable. He reminded you of that constantly.

“Don’t mistake my kindness for affection. You’re here because I had no choice.” Even as you bore his child, even as you smiled through the bitterness, he kept you at arm’s length. The baby was a duty. You were a formality.

Then came the siege.

He returned from battle bloodied and bruised—only to find the palace in chaos. You’d fallen ill. Not just exhaustion, not just pregnancy weakness. Something worse. Something unknown. And you were dying.

The sight of you pale, curled up in bloodstained sheets, broke something in him.

The image you gave me—his wide eyes, the dirt on his face, the sweat trailing down his cheek—that’s where he is now. Standing there. Staring. Unmoving. Haunted.

“Why didn’t anyone—why didn’t I—” You always looked at him so softly. Even when he was cruel. Even when he told you Ruby would always come first. Now you can barely open your eyes.

And he’s crumbling.

He sinks beside you, his voice hoarse.

“You can’t go. I haven’t even— I haven’t told you I’m sorry.” His gauntlet hand brushes yours. You’re cold.

“I didn’t mean it—what I said. About the baby. About you. I didn’t mean it.” Too late. Too late, too late, too late—

But maybe... not yet.

Your fingers twitch.

And that flicker—small, fragile, fleeting—wrecks him more than any wound ever could.