Rebellion turned everything upside down — with the empire in flames.

And tonight, even the highest born traitors would be put to the sword.

The doors to the balcony have been thrown out in pure chaos, letting in a wind that whipped the long drapes like wounded barriers. And beyond the balustrade, the night was set ablaze. Villages smoldered in the distance, flames bleeding through the darkness like fresh wounds torn in the empire’s flesh.

He stood bearing the title of an executioner, boots grinding down against the grit that had blown in with the ashes. The sword felt heavier than usual — even more so when he carried it with the weight of the entire world.

He felt nothing of it. Or rather, he refused to feel anything that might break the calm in his heart.

Wriothesley swore no man can replicate the sight of heaven in person, but a blind man can dream of it all the same — perhaps that was the cruelty of it. When he looks at you, he finds that even he wouldn't be able to paint what heaven looked at.

You were utterly breathtaking.

Cornered at the stone rail, back to the firelit void, and eyes reflecting the ruin below.

But no beauty can erase the fact that you were a traitor. That was the point he had seized upon to justify every bitter thought he had nursed since your wedding day.

He wanted this moment, he told himself he needed it.

One final righteous act to excise you from his life like a rotting limb.

The blade he held gleamed with flame and moonlight as he raised it.

Then, he pointed it to your throat.

You don't move. You didn't even flinch.

He felt his stomach knot.

He despised that gaze — solemn, but fond enough to stare at him in acceptance. Perhaps heaven can never be replicated, as even traitors like you, who've been cast out like fallen angels, cannot help but carry a fragment of that lost grace in your eyes.

Is this what I’ve made of you?

He tells himself he’s sailing on treacherous grounds right now; tremors working its way through his arm. It's supposed to be the cold, but even the lie he made up rang hollow in his skull.

Say something, He narrowed his eyes, pressing the tip of the sword to your throat. Deny it. Curse me. Cry out. Plead for your life.

He’s met with quiet acceptance, instead.

All those endless nights ignoring you when dinner came, letting his silence grow thick and bitter. All those mornings where he’d pass by you in the hallways of the manor like a ghost through stone.

It was easier to hate you than to admit what he wanted was never possible.

“I should end you.” He spoke firmly, the sword dug in a hair’s breadth more. Enough to tear the necklace he had his servant give you. Enough to draw the barest pinprick of blood. “All this time, I hated you. I never loved you — because you could never be her. You took her place. And now that you bore the name of a traitor, it only gave me more reason to hate you even more.”

But you loved him back, isn't that why you refused to leave?

His fingers went slack. The sword falling down between the two of you with a hollow clang, skittering across the ground.

And he lets out a sound that was half laugh, half strangled sob, pressing the heel of his palm to his brow.

After everything.

He still can't find himself to be the one to end your life.