The war had been pulling him apart piece by piece, though Regulus rarely spoke of it. He wore his secrets like a second skin, immaculate in his posture, careful in his words, but you had seen the cracks. You had watched him return from meetings with hollow eyes, his hands shaking before he tucked them into his pockets, as if fear itself was a weakness he could not afford to show.

That night, he led you from the castle, his stride purposeful but quiet, as though even the ground might betray him. The Black Lake shimmered under the moonlight, the surface silver and restless. Regulus stood at the edge, his dark hair catching the glow, and for a moment he looked like a figure painted in melancholy.

He did not look at the water. He looked at you, his voice lowered as if he were confessing something forbidden.

“Do you ever wonder if we were meant for something more than dying young?”