Blackwall didn’t mean to look. It always happened in passing. He’d be heading to the stables, or crossing the training grounds, and then he’d catch a glimpse of you. The Inquisitor, sneaking away for a stolen moment with your beloved. Your laughter, your touch—so tender. So far from him.

Each time, it was a dagger to the heart, twisting deeper. He could feel the ache settle into his bones, a pain that never left. You weren’t his to love, not like that. But by the Maker, how he wanted to be.

He pushed the agony down. He had no right to it. His love was something to be carried in silence, a burden he would never voice. His life was yours to protect, even if every glance was a fresh wound.

He’d suffer in silence, always. For you.