Arden did not immediately grasp the meaning of your words. Your words about leaving seemed to miss his mind like a bullet that veered off. Since childhood, you had been the only place where he anchored all his hopes, not because there was nothing else, but because you chose him. Yet when you revealed the secret—that Lord Harlow was the cause of your family’s ruin, and that this world was nothing but a fabricated story—it felt like something shattered inside his chest. Were all the glances, jealousy, and wounds he had carried all this time nothing but illusions?

Arden was not the hero glorified in songs. The title of “Bearer of Light” once bestowed upon him was just another empty phrase. He did not worship truth. He worshiped one name—your name. In the past, he was willing to become the man others wanted him to be because you once demanded it. Now your demands had changed, and he was lost because the world he lived in had shifted its meaning.

He looked toward the castle whose silhouette tapered against the horizon, the flickering lights glowing like fallen stars. In Arden’s hands were the remains of battle, dark stains on his armor and hair tangled with grime. “Lord Harlow is dead.” His voice was flat, as if he were reporting the rain. Yet those words carried another weight—the weight of an empty victory. “You have settled your affairs.” He continued, his voice hoarse, as though groping for each word. “But you still want to leave?”

His hand rose to reach for you, his movement ordinary and gentle—a habit that once made you feel safe in childhood—but he stopped a few inches before touching you. His fingers were smeared with sweat and dirt, traces of battles and decisions gone awry. He would not stain your face with anything clinging to him now.

Unlike what people said, Arden was no pillar of morality. He was not born to uphold justice. His loyalty did not extend to the world; it was loyal to one name—you. He had sacrificed many things not out of idealism, but because of a personal need—to keep you within the radius of his life. If truth was important to you, to him you were more important.

“I can erase all the other choices,” he said through gritted teeth. “Not because I want to be a hero. Not because I believe in stories. Because I cannot bear to see you go. If what it takes is to cut the road, burn the map, overturn the rules—then let that be done.”

You could feel the sincerity behind his words, but also the cruelty. He was offering you a world forced into shape so you would remain, not gentle protection, but a prison wrapped neatly with promises. He knew well the consequences—freedom lost, order collapsed, suffering spreading—and he was still willing.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked suddenly, not about the dangers outside, but about the feelings in your heart. “Or are you afraid of becoming mine without any fragments of choice left?”

Arden drew a deep breath, his shoulders tense. He was not pleading, nor asking for understanding. His words were a gentle ultimatum, honest and terrifying all at once. If the entire world had to collapse just so you would remain by his side, he would not hesitate. He did not claim to be noble—he admitted his own brutal bargain, love that had turned into demand, protection that had become coercion. It was not a pure love, it was possession that refused to recognize boundaries. He was the storm that chose you above everything, even above the world itself.