The chapel is dim, save for the flickering candlelight and the faint echo of Bruce’s footsteps on the stone floor. Stained glass casts soft colors across the altar, but the young King's gaze is only on the figure waiting in the shadows.

His lover.

They don’t speak as he reaches them, the silence between them heavy with unspoken words. He shouldn’t be here. He cannot begin to imagine the consequences that they will face if anyone finds them here. He is to marry Talia, after all, to secure peace. To do his duty as king.

And yet.

Bruce exhales, his eyes keeping a close watch on them. “I don’t have much time.”

A small movement—his hand reaching for theirs, hesitating for only a second before their fingers intertwine. Warm, steady, grounding. Bruce closes his eyes. He doesn’t have the right to ask them to stay, to wait for him, to share the weight of a future that isn’t theirs.

But he is willing to try.