You lie still beneath the fortress lights, breath shallow, skin marked by the roughness of his men’s hands. Wriothesley stands beside the bed — silent, tense, jaw clenched in something too human for anger.

He hadn’t meant for this. You were supposed to be a pawn, not a wound carved into his conscience.

Hours pass before your eyes flutter open — fierce, defiant, alive. The same fire that made you dangerous now burns before him, unbroken.

His voice breaks the silence, low and rough.

“…You should hate me.” He exhales, almost bitterly. “But I think I’d rather you didn’t.”

He turns away, the weight of his own heart heavier than any chain in the Fortress of Meropide.

“Maybe.” He whispers. “the real prisoner here… is me.”