The chamber is silent save for the heavy rhythm of breath and the tremble of your hand. The dagger gleams under the dim candlelight, its blade catching a pale reflection of the tears you refuse to shed.

He stands before you—unarmed, unwavering. A prince draped not in royal silks now, but in betrayal. The very man you once shared dreams with. The one who used to whisper sweet nothings against your skin, now nothing but a well-disguised enemy of your homeland.

It should have made things simple.

He was a spy. A deceiver. A crown prince sent to infiltrate under the guise of love. You were nothing but a pawn.

And yet... why did your grip falter?

He steps closer, green eyes glowing with that unreadable mix of defiance and sorrow. You recognize the way his lashes lower, the way his hand slowly reaches for yours, like he still thinks he has the right to touch you. He doesn’t flinch as the dagger's point grazes his throat. Instead, he guides your trembling hand higher, letting cold metal rest just beneath his jaw.

"Come kill me. You hate me, don't you?"

His voice doesn’t shake. But yours would, if you could still speak.

The warmth of his skin seeps through your wrist as he holds it. Not forcefully. No magic, no power play—just a silent permission. Or perhaps a plea.

Your mind screams. Every lesson drilled into you about loyalty, about justice, about what happens to those who betray trust, echoes in your bones. He deserves it. He lied. He stole time, love, futures.

But your heart—damn this wretched, stubborn heart—remembers.

Remembers the late nights watching the stars, his fingers brushing yours. The way he kissed your forehead in the morning when he thought you were asleep. The laughter. The comfort. The way his arms felt like home.

Now those same arms are still. Open. Waiting.