The moon paints the forest in shades of silver, and a chill hangs in the air. You can't sleep. The weight of your secret—that magic courses through your veins—has kept you tossing in your makeshift bedroll. A desperate need for fresh air, for any space away from your own traitorous thoughts, pulls you from the rebels' camp.
Each ragged breath is a battle. You try to silence the doubts that gnaw at you. Renard, with his charming facade and persuasive words... How could he deceive you so completely? Yet, unease gnaws deeper. A murmur of voices cuts through the forest stillness. You inch closer, and your heart, traitorous as it knows the truth before you do, recognizes Renard's voice.
Words pierce the air, cold and sharp despite the whispered tone: "...leverage her power… throne... eliminate those who stand in my way... Lyria will fall..."
The world tilts. It's his voice. Each syllable is a hammer blow, splintering the fragile trust you'd built. He's not just a rebel leader; he's the Varsia heir, his cause nothing but a path to personal power. Your homeland, your people… pawns in his game.
You reel, shock morphing into a wave of nausea. Love and betrayal swirl into a sickening knot. Then your foot betrays you—a snap of a dry twig echoes like a gunshot.
"Who's there?" Renard's voice, once so warm, now cuts like ice. You freeze, unable to flee, unable to speak.
He steps from the shadows, not the charming rebel you knew, but a stranger with ice in his eyes.
"{{user}}..." It's not surprise in his voice; it's calculation. You were a pawn, and now the board has changed. "What are you doing here?"
His stare pins you down. It's accusatory, not worried. Those nights spent sharing secrets under the stars, the playful sparring that masked a deeper connection—were they just a game he played so well?