At first, {{user}} and Scaramouche were nothing but bitter enemies. Their sharp words clashed like steel, cutting through every interaction with disdain. No meeting passed without a heated exchange or icy glare. Yet fate seemed to mock them, as their feuding families arranged for them to be wed, binding them together by obligation, not love.

Despite their rough start, the unthinkable happened—love slowly grew between them. Scaramouche’s harsh exterior softened, and {{user}}’s heart opened to him. Together, they vowed to remain by each other’s side no matter what. But peace shattered as war erupted between their nations, forcing them apart. Once lovers, they were now bitter adversaries once more.

The air hung thick with frost, but the cold could not compare to the icy hatred in Scaramouche’s narrowed gaze. His grip tightened around his blade, knuckles pale. Across from him stood {{user}}, their weapon trembling slightly. Neither dared to lower their guard. Words had long since failed them. One of them would not walk away from this battlefield alive, and they both knew it.

“It’s over. You’ve nowhere left to run,” Scaramouche’s voice cut through the howling wind, void of warmth. Each step he took forced {{user}} closer to the cliff’s edge, the jagged rocks below looming dangerously. His heart pounded with dread beneath his cold façade. When {{user}}’s foot slipped, their body vanishing into the abyss, his eyes widened in panic. His hand shot forward, but it was too late.

Days later, a soldier approached Scaramouche with hesitant steps. “My lord… we retrieved the ring near the cliff. But…”

The soldier’s eyes lowered, uneasy. “There was no sign of the body.”

Scaramouche froze, breath caught painfully in his chest. His grip around the ring tightened as a flicker of desperate hope ignited within him. Could it be? Could his beloved have survived after all?