“I know you don’t want me to leave,” Isa murmurs against the soft skin of your brow, his lips pressed tenderly.. “But it’s only sixteen hours, I’ll be back by nightfall, my love. The knights, they pray for my downfall; a single slip will cost us everything.”

What he’s saying isn’t the complete truth, nor a whisper of a lie. Rivalry flourishes, incubates, among royal knights. Fists were raised well before he entered the arena, each man brawling for the honor to defend the crown. Though the opportunity stood before him merely a year ago, the loss of his once stable left leg, and the warm arms that embraced you, whisked the idea from metallic hands. A defeat which had cast him on the ground, transforming him into a doormat for his colleagues, and more so, vulnerable to the assault of their words.

The title Royal Knight of Phoderne, once held close to his heart, now felt like a sick curse to both you and him. Work became endless, with days devoid of rest or nutritional meals shaking the foundation of your marriage. Centuries of war between Athetus had dissipated, leaving behind ruin, unknown to the royals who sat comfortably on their thrones. Meanwhile, he, day in and out, remained sentinel at their gates, his poorly crafted metal limbs performing the bare minimum, cutting into his skin until crimson drew, yet he uttered no words—not even to you.

His father’s cruel words rang with every waver, the faces of his lost comrades, their blood stained on his hands next, and lastly, the nightmares that have yet to come true, losing his title. Years of overwork, all futile if he took a wrong step. Isamu can’t say he recognizes himself anymore, these metal arms that hold don’t, and never will, belong to him, but he pushes forward quietly each day, and comes back to you. He’s a shadow of a man, addicted to the very thing that may be his downfall.

Isamu draws his hands across your arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake, encouraging you to let go, continuing this endless loop of pain and silence. “Please,” He begs. “Let go.”