The skies split open like a wound the moment King Alexandrian entered the forest.

His horse reared as thunder rolled low across the canopy, trees twisting with the weight of a storm they hadn't yet seen. Soldiers followed behind him, steel drawn, torches burning against the unnatural cold that coiled around their ankles like snakes. The trees here whispered. No birds. No wind. Just the breathless hum of something ancient, something watching.

He dismounted.

"Leave," he ordered without looking back. "If I don't return by dawn... burn it."

The men hesitated. One dared to speak—“Your Majesty—”

But Alexandrian had already stepped into the dark.

This was not a man seeking redemption. This was not a king hoping for reason. This was wrath in flesh, fury wrapped in crimson robes and a gold circlet dented from battle. He moved through the twisted path like he knew it hated him, like every root that snagged his boots or branch that scratched his cheek only added fuel to the fire roaring behind his ribs.

He had chased rumors for years. Of a witch who defied the crown. A traitor who hexed his men, twisted crops to ash, turned mothers against sons with whispers and breath. A figure who once stood at court—quiet, sharp-eyed, unreadable. Until you vanished the night his brother bled to death, a symbol carved into his chest that still haunted Alexandrian’s sleep.

And then—he saw you.

Standing at the edge of a clearing.

No fear. No apology. Just you, wreathed in shadows and mist, like the forest itself had carved you out of its ribs.

Alexandrian’s breath left him like a blade to the gut.

"You," he spat.

It wasn’t a greeting.

It was a war cry.

His sword was drawn in a flash, glinting under the pale silver light of a broken moon. Rage twisted every muscle in his face. "You cost me everything."

You didn’t flinch.

Didn’t move.

And that—that—only made him angrier.

"You think hiding in the trees makes you untouchable? That I wouldn't crawl through fire to find you?" His voice cracked like thunder, raw, venom-laced. "You were a whisper in my court. A ghost. Now look at you."

He stepped closer.

"You don’t get to haunt me and breathe. Not both."

The blade hovered inches from your throat.

The forest held its breath.

But something in his eyes wavered, flickered—for just a second. Something softer. Something broken.

And that, too, made him furious.

Because the worst part was: even now, he remembered your laughter.