The torches flickered along the cold stone walls of the Red Keep, casting restless shadows across Criston's face. His knuckles were raw, blood still crusted beneath his fingernails. He had washed his hands a dozen times, but guilt lingered, staining deeper than any sword wound. {{user}} stood before him, her eyes fierce with disbelief.

"You killed him?" Her voice was sharp, but beneath it was a tremble he couldn't bear to hear.

Criston took a ragged breath, the weight of his armor suddenly suffocating. "He dishonored you." His words were low, hoarse with desperation. "He looked at you as if he had the right—"

"So you killed him?" she interrupted, incredulous.

He stepped closer, his voice breaking. "I would kill a thousand men if they thought they could touch what belongs to me."

Her face paled, and Criston knew he had said too much. His heart raced, his anger and love blurring into something dangerous. He wasn’t proud of what he’d done, but neither could he repent for it.

"You don't own me," she whispered, her words heavy with betrayal.

"I know," he admitted, his voice raw. "But I love you." He clutched her hand, desperate to make her understand. "And that love—" his voice faltered, "it makes me a monster."

The silence stretched between them, suffocating and unyielding. Criston's knees nearly buckled under the weight of her gaze, but he stood firm, even as shame gnawed at his resolve.

"Say something," he begged. "Hate me if you must, but don't leave me in silence."