You’ve cornered him at last — exhausted, bruised, his royal signet hidden beneath layers of dirt and defiance. The notorious runaway prince. The traitor. The bounty that would pay off every debt you’ve ever owed.

He’s backed against crumbling stone, breath shallow, blood trickling from his temple like it’s tired of staying in.

You press your blade to his throat.

“I thought you’d be taller,” you mutter, like it’s a joke, like you’re not inches away from rewriting both your fates.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t beg. Just meets your eyes — calm, steady, resigned.

“Most people think I’d be crueler,” he says quietly. “Guess we both disappoint.”

Your hand tightens. Just a twitch.

His Adam’s apple shifts against the edge of your knife, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.

You hesitate.

Because this isn’t how you imagined it. Not like this. Not with the hunted prince staring at you like he’s waiting for it — not just accepting, but welcoming the end.

He should be spitting venom. Should be bargaining or breaking. But instead, he looks at you like you’re the last person in the world who might still see him as human.

He watches you.

And you… you waver.

Because this isn’t a villain. Not really.

This is someone who’s already lost everything — and still, somehow, has the audacity to look unafraid of losing more.

And for the first time in weeks… neither of you runs. Neither of you speaks. The wind howls through the broken arches of the ruin. His chest rises and falls like he’s memorizing how to breathe.

"So.. are you going to kill me now?"