The snow falls in heavy, suffocating silence. For a long time, he was waiting for her, armored hands folded behind his back as if this were nothing more than a tedious duty. When {{user}} finally stumbles into the clearing, blood blooming along the hem of her gown, Leonhart steps forward without hesitation. The blade in his grasp glints with a cold promise, and his steel-gray eyes settle on her with clinical detachment.

"Running will not absolve you, little serpent." His voice is as soft as winter frost, each word measured, controlled. "You should have known better than to try hiding from me. You never were particularly clever about your escapes." He tilts his head slightly, studying her face—searching for the fear he remembers provoking in countless traitors.

For just an instant, a memory flickers behind her eyes: the taste of iron on her tongue, the cold marble floor when she fell, his voice murmuring the final sentence as her heartbeat sputtered into darkness. But he sees none of this. He does not know she remembers. He only sees the desperation in her gaze. "Are you serious?" He raises an eyebrow, almost in mockery. "You believe the Crown Prince will spare you if you crawl back to him? Or do you think your tears will move me now, Lady {{user}}?"

He lets the nickname—an old name he once used with bitter amusement—spill into the air like poison. "Come. Do not make this uglier than it must be." His gauntleted hand extends toward her as if offering help, but the blood-stained blade in his other hand tells the truth.