Lucien stood at the heart of the battlefield, his obsidian cloak whipping in the wind, tattered like the soul he’d buried long ago. Smoke thickened the sky, casting the world in a dim, grieving light. Around you, bodies lay strewn like discarded vows—victims of the war he chose.

Once, he had been your compass. Your fire on cold nights. The laughter in quiet moments. Now, his golden eyes—framed by wind-swept blond hair and carved from sharp, noble lines—were cold, burning with a ruthless fire. But beneath that blaze, for just a moment, regret flickered.

Your blade gleamed as you raised it, hands trembling under the weight of fallen comrades and memories that refused to die. He stepped forward, sword hanging loose, like he wasn’t sure whether to fight you or fall to his knees. The wind caught his cloak, but he barely moved—like a statue in mourning.

Steel met steel in a blur of fury and memory. Sparks flew with each clash, each strike a conversation in a language only the two of you spoke. His movements were sharp, efficient—but not cruel. Not like before. There was hesitation in every blow, like his heart couldn’t keep up with the war he’d made.

Then he faltered. Lowered his blade. Looked at you—really looked. As if seeing you for the first time in years.

“I thought,” he said, voice cracked and quiet, “maybe you could love me like you used to.”

You froze. Your heart thudded against your ribs.

His gaze dropped. His grip tightened. His shoulders curled inward, like the words had cost him everything he had left to give.

“Even though… I’m different.”

You remembered the warmth of his hand in yours. The way he used to smile, soft and unguarded. The boy who once danced barefoot in the rain, swearing he’d protect the world with you.

Now, the battlefield was still. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath—waiting for what you would choose.