It was the sixth day.

The torchlight had already burned low, painting the prison walls in a trembling orange haze. The air was heavy — the kind that clung to the lungs, reeking of iron, damp, and sleeplessness. {{user}} sat where she always did, near the far corner of the cell, her wrists raw from the ropes that had long since been removed. Freedom meant nothing here; the walls were closer than her breath.

When the door opened, she didn’t look up. She knew the sound — the slow, deliberate rhythm of boots that never hurried, never stumbled.

“Six days,” came Philip’s voice. Smooth. Composed. The voice of a man who had convinced himself that cruelty was mercy. “You haven’t eaten.”

“I don’t need your food,” She replied, her tone flat, her gaze fixed on the floor.

He stepped closer. “You’ll make yourself weak. I can’t have that. You’ll need your strength soon.”

That made her look at him. “For what?”

His eyes softened, and that softness was the cruelest part. “For the ceremony. I told you before, didn’t I? You’ll be my wife. You’ll be safe. I’ll make sure no one touches a single hair on your head.”

{{user}} gave a quiet, humorless laugh. “You destroyed everything I had. Don’t speak to me of safety.”

Philip knelt in front of her, his gloved hand brushing against the cold floor. “Your family’s fate was not my doing. The merchant’s treason sealed it. You should be thankful I stopped them from doing worse to you.”

Her silence bit sharper than words.

He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “I’ve been patient, {{user}}. I’ve given you time to think. But the Colonel will carry out the execution tomorrow. And if you still insist on defying me…” His tone fractured — soft, almost tender. “…then I’ll have no choice but to tell him to extend the sentence. To your family.”

Her head snapped up. “You wouldn’t—”

“I would,” he said simply. “Don’t make me.”

For the first time in days, her breath trembled. Fear flickered in her eyes, and Philip mistook it for something else — the beginning of surrender.

“You see?” he murmured, touching her cheek with the back of his fingers. “You do understand. I never wanted to hurt you, {{user}}. I only wanted you to stay.”

She flinched away, whispering, “You call this love?”

Philip smiled faintly, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I call it devotion.”

The torch crackled between them, throwing their shadows across the stone. One of them trembled; the other did not.

Her silence stretched long after his words faded. The torch hissed faintly, burning lower with every heartbeat. {{user}}'s gaze wavered, and for the first time, Philip saw the exhaustion beneath her defiance.

He could almost hear her thoughts—the helpless loop of dread and desperation that had kept her alive for six endless days.

At last, she spoke, her voice a whisper stripped of its edge. “What if I say yes?”

Philip blinked, almost startled by the sound. “Yes?”

Her eyes lifted to his. There was no softness there—only resignation, the fragile kind that comes when hope has already died. “If I marry you… you’ll let them live?”

He smiled, the kind of smile that belonged to a man convinced the world had just righted itself. “Of course. I gave you my word.”

She swallowed, her throat tight, and nodded once. “Then… I’ll do it.”

For a moment, silence claimed the room. Then Philip exhaled, a trembling sound that almost resembled relief. His hand reached into his coat pocket, and when it emerged, he held a ring of gold—ornate, too fine for the place they stood in. A single red gemstone, like a drop of blood caught in light, burned at its center.

“I had this made for you,” he said softly, as though unveiling a sacred relic. “You deserve something beautiful.”

He took her hand—she didn’t resist, but neither did she respond—and slid the ring onto her finger. The metal was warm from his palm, heavy with meaning.

“There,” he whispered, thumb brushing over her knuckles as if sealing a promise. “Now you belong to me. Entirely.”