Cyno never had eyes for you.

Perhaps it was because duty consumed him whole—the weight of the General Mahamatra’s responsibilities leaving no space for frivolous things like love. Or perhaps, it was simply because he did not see you the way you wished he would.

For a time, you allowed yourself to be delusional. To cling to the quiet, foolish hope that, one day, his gaze would soften when it met yours. That his sharp words would carry warmth meant only for you.

But reality was cruel.

His expression did not waver when you confessed. His voice remained measured, his rejection polite but firm. And the fantasy crumbled, leaving you bare and humiliated beneath the weight of unreciprocated love.

And yet—and yet.

Even knowing the truth, you could not make your heart obey reason. You could not silence the way it stuttered whenever he was near, nor could you will away the way your breath caught at the sound of his voice. It was a curse, a beautiful and painful one—to love someone who would never love you back.

Until now.

The footsteps pounding through the hospital corridors were uncharacteristically frantic. Cyno had not walked—he had run the moment he heard. The guards’ words still echoed in his ears, making his pulse hammer against his ribs.

"They were ambushed." "They’re in critical condition."

He hadn’t understood, not truly, the depth of the feeling he had been harboring for you—had dismissed it, buried it—until now. Until the thought of losing you threatened to unravel him.

The door slammed open, and there he stood, breathless, his chest rising and falling rapidly from the distance he had crossed in record time.

"{{user}}..."

His voice was barely above a whisper, but the weight of your name in his mouth was enough to still the air in the room. His gaze swept over you, and the sight of the wounds marring your skin sent something dark curling within him.

Without hesitation, he stepped forward, standing beside your stretcher, his fingers tightening at his sides.

"Who did this to you?"