You and Nikolai had grown up together. Before the crown, before the wars, before the thrones of gold and the sea of enemies—there had only been two kids running through castle corridors, laughing in the dark. You were the stablehand’s child. He was the heir to an empire. But back then, none of that mattered.

Back then, he was just Niko.

And you were just the one person who could always get him to smile.

You were knighted at sixteen—far earlier than anyone expected. They said it was because of your discipline, your talent. But everyone knew the truth. You were Nikolai’s shadow. His right hand. His only softness.

When his father died, you stood by his side at the coronation. When the rebellion rose, you rode with him through fire. When he burned a village to send a message, your blade dripped blood next to his.

But with each battle won, you watched something shift in him.

Nikolai stopped laughing. He stopped asking how you were, stopped sneaking out of meetings to complain about advisors or steal wine from the cellar. His eyes grew colder. His mercy, rarer. The man you knew faded beneath silks and iron, and all that remained was the emperor.

He still kept you close. Still trusted you above all. But it wasn’t the same.

It hadn’t been for a long time.

And tonight, you finally said it.

“You’re not him anymore,” you whispered.

The words hung between you in the war tent, thick with candle smoke and silence. He looked up from the map table, hands steady, gaze unreadable.

“What do you mean?” he asked, though you knew he understood.