The sky was heavy with storm clouds, thick and low like the breath of something ancient and watching. Wind tugged at cloaks and banners.

You stood bruised and bound, the noose scratching your neck like a warning.

The king’s face paled with fury, but it was Queen Lyra who stepped down from the dais, her voice calm but steely.

“She has been mistreated,” she said, eyes locked on the bruises marring your arms. “And if she’s lost the child because of it… this court will bear the shame of killing the crown’s heir.”

Gasps rippled. The executioner stepped back, hand faltering on the rope.

Alex reached you, untying your wrists with shaking hands. His touch was gentle, but his eyes burned.

“You’re hurt,” he said quietly, like it hurt to speak the words.

“I’m fine,” you whispered, though you weren’t sure you were.

You didn’t know if the life inside you had survived, only that Alex was here. That he had chosen you, again and again, even against his father.