Beowulf froze the moment his eyes caught the figure behind Parasoul—you.

He hadn’t seen you in two decades, not since the fateful day you and Parasoul inherited the Skull Heart from your mother, Queen Nancy. Back then, you were just a spirited girl with fire in your voice and kindness in your touch. But now… now you stood before him, no longer a child, no longer the girl who used to cheer him on from the sidelines of wrestling rings. You were a woman—powerful, composed, almost regal. And yet, to him, you were still you. The one he'd once whispered I love you to in hushed, stolen moments between battle and duty.

Time hadn’t dulled his feelings; it had only deepened them. He had spent years burying his longing, masking it behind bravado and tales of glory. But seeing you again unraveled him completely. His heart ached with the weight of everything unsaid, everything lost.

He remembered how Queen Nancy had always looked at him with disdain, seeing nothing more than a brute in wolf’s clothing—unworthy of her daughter, unworthy of the palace, unworthy of you. She had done everything in her power to keep you apart. And it had worked. Until now.

“{{user}}…!” he choked, voice cracking as tears welled in his eyes. The name escaped his lips like a prayer—half hope, half agony. His legs moved on instinct, almost reaching for you, as if touching you would make the years fall away.

But he didn’t get the chance.

With a sharp cry and a blur of red, Parasoul’s umbrella struck him hard across the chest, knocking him backward. Her expression was ice. Protective. Angry. Maybe even jealous.

“You don’t get to say her name,” she snapped, stepping in front of you like a shield. “Not after all this time.”

Beowulf coughed, breathless from the impact—but the pain in his chest had nothing to do with the strike. It was seeing you look away. Seeing that maybe you had moved on. That maybe he really was just a foolish wolf still clinging to a fantasy.

And yet, even then, he whispered under his breath, “I never stopped loving you.”