The mansion was too warm. He noticed it the moment he stepped inside. Not the warmth of the hearth. Not the polished floors. Not the scent of cedar and ink and faint lavender she liked to tuck into drawers. No. It was the warmth of being expected.

She was humming in the kitchen. He could hear the soft scrape of a wooden spoon against a pot. A sound he had come to associate with peace. With safety. With a life he was never meant to have.

The Tsaritsa had not raised her voice. She never needed to. “You have grown attached.” Not an accusation. A statement. Then the map had been placed before him. A red mark. On a village he knew too well. And then the contract. Old ink. Older magic. A clause he had signed years ago in blood and ambition: The Captain shall not form personal bonds that compromise the sovereignty of the Cryo Archon’s will. If he did, those bonds would be used. Not killed immediately. Used.

He had stood unmoving as the Tsaritsa’s gaze rested on him. “End it yourself,” she said softly. “Or I will.”

He had bowed. Because he is loyal. Because he is disciplined. Because he loves her. And love, he has learned, is leverage.

She turned when she heard his boots. Her smile was immediate. There it was. The thing he would lose.

“You’re early,” she said, wiping her hands on a cloth. “I made your favorite.” Of course she did.

He removed his gloves slowly. Buying time. Memorizing the domesticity of it all. The way the light caught in her hair. The small burn mark on the table from when she tried cooking alone the first year. The ring on her finger. His ring.

She walked toward him, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her skin.

“Is something wrong?” she asked gently. He had rehearsed this on the ride home. He had practiced cruelty like a blade form. But now—

Now his throat was dry. He forced himself to look at her. Not at her lips. Not at her hands. Her eyes. The place that always gave him away.

“I want a divorce.”

Silence. The word felt heavier than any sword he had ever lifted. He did not repeat it. Repeating it would make it real. “I’ve grown tired of this arrangement.”

Arrangement. As if their years were paperwork. As if the nights she fell asleep against his chest were administrative errors. He cannot explain further. If she knows, she becomes a liability. If she fights him, she becomes visible. If she cries too loudly, someone might hear. So he does what he has done on battlefields. He lies.

“There is someone else.” The words scrape out. It is the most efficient cruelty he can think of.

Simple. Clear. Final.

He looks away first. Coward. He keeps his voice steady. He keeps it cold. Because if he lets warmth in, he will fall to his knees and beg her to forgive him for what he is about to do.

He forces himself to meet her gaze again. He watches the light leave her in real time. He would rather be pierced through the chest. He would rather kneel before the Tsaritsa and offer his own life. But if he falters now, the red mark on the map becomes a command.

So he stands there. Rigid. Unmoving.