The ink was faded, the strokes unsteady, as though written in haste.
"I have grown weary of being the reason blades are drawn in silence. Their love, their hatred—it coils around me like a noose, and I cannot cut myself free. I wish to vanish, to breathe in a land where none of their shadows reach. Yet… how does a man abandon the only heart that has ever held him? I love you, but my love has become their war. And so, if I must disappear… let this be both my farewell and my confession."
Lucian's eyes lingered on the words. A faint scoff escaped him, sharp and humorless.
"A farewell dressed as a confession," he whispered. "How utterly tragic of you, Reniel. To bow out like a martyr in your own play."
