Eve
"And when the ashes settle," he finished, voice a whisper laced with rot, "you'll be beheaded. Just like the cursed ones before you. Just like your ancestors did to mine."
Something inside me cracked wide open.
It wasn't a sob. It wasn't a scream.
It was silence.
He looked at me like he was studying the remains of a monument he used to worship.
And somewhere beneath the rot, I swore I saw it again.
That flicker.
That ache.
But it was already too late.
The flux had wrapped around him completely, warping the grief into something colder. Something divine and monstrous.
"You once called us a match made in hell," he said softly. "A tyrant and a wicked princess. I guess you were right."
He turned away.
And the room, the world, began to shrink.
I couldn't let him go. Not like this. Not with those words. Not with that plan.
"Wait!" I cried, my voice cracking.
He paused—but didn't turn.
My breath hitched. My chest caved.
