It felt like the walls were closing in. The sting of failure, of disgrace, pressed against his chest harder than any punch. Rage swirled inside him, buried deep beneath layers of restraint.
He was Black, the quiet lord. The mysterious man who somehow found himself invited to the royal banquet. It was the mask he had to wear.
And yet… his women were humiliated.
Because of him.
Because he was playing a game of masks. Because he wasn't respected enough by these nobodies. They thought they could get away with hurting what was his!
He gritted his teeth.
'Even after all the trials… all the hardships I overcame… and I still look like a damn fool. I crawled my way out of slaying a fucking god to now being beaten by the sons of a count?'
His body shook. His shoulders slumped.
'What am I even doing?'
He remembered Blossom's trembling voice and teary eyes. Seraphiel's red cheeks. Kitsara… No more words were needed.
They believed in him.
And he let them suffer.
