The throne room burned.
His blood stained the marble floor, dark and steaming. The banners above—the same ones that once bore his crest—now fluttered with another man's sigil.
Steel pressed against his throat. Not from an enemy, but from his brother.
"You never saw it coming, did you?" the prince sneered, twisting the blade deeper into his side.
He choked on his own breath. "You were... nothing... without me."
His brother laughed. "Exactly. And now I'm everything… without you."
Around them, shadows moved—soldiers he once commanded. Loyal only while it suited them. And behind them all, on the dais of his stolen throne, she stood.
Her.
Hair like black silk, eyes lined with kohl, lips he had kissed beneath moons and between wars. She didn't cry. Didn't scream. Just watched.
"Liora," he whispered.
She didn't answer.
Only when his brother's blade slid through his chest did she finally move. Not to run. Not to stop it. But to step forward and kneel beside him.
"I told you," she said softly, brushing hair from his bloodied face, "love is not enough to rewrite fate."
He tried to speak, but the world was fading.
"They say the soul remembers," she whispered. "Maybe in your next life… you'll understand why I did this."
Darkness swallowed him whole.