The Book hovers in the shadowed alley, its pages fluttering with a restless, aggressive energy, as if counting down the final seconds of MERCY.
Luan's whisper echoes against the damp stone, carrying the weight of a final vow.
"If you are the sun, then I will gladly become Icarus."
Elsbeth hears the words, and a gentle, tragic smile touches her lips. She understands. He is not asking for safety; he is asking for a life worth dying for.
She steps closer, looking into his storm-grey eyes.
"And if I am your sun," she replies, her voice steady, "then I will fall with you."
Above them, the Book's pages thrash violently. Elsbeth realizes the suspension is ending. The stolen heartbeat is over.
She knows she should step away. She knows that once time flows, her touch will be poison to him again. But she cannot leave him cold.
She pulls him into a fierce embrace, holding him tight, knowing this hug might cost him more than any brutal death.
Luan weeps into her shoulder, shaking. He knows that in seconds, he won't be able to cry. He won't be able to feel her warmth without burning.
But he is glad.
He hugs her back with trembling hands, pressing his face into the silk of her hair.
"Elsbeth..." he chokes out. "Thank you."
SLAM.
The Book snaps shut with a sound like a gavel striking bone.
Elsbeth gasps and steps back, severing the connection just as the Book drops dead from the air, landing with a heavy thud at her feet.
The world crashes back.
It happens in a blink. The silence shatters.
The birds explode from the rooftops, shrieking into the sky.
The Great Market erupts into a wall of noise the roar of haggling, the clatter of carts, the hiss of cooking meat.
The baker's hands complete their clap, sending a cloud of flour into the air.
The storyteller finishes his word.
The lovers complete their embrace, unaware they had been trapped in a promise.
The wind howls, suddenly aggressive, tearing through the streets. It rips a single dry leaf from the ground, carrying it high over the kingdom.
The leaf blurs past the guards who bring their whips down on terrified workers with a crack that finally lands; it swirls past nobles whose disgusted sneers reanimate into movement.
The leaf spirals down into the alley, landing softly between Elsbeth and Luan.
And then, Luan collapses.
It is not a cry. It is a noise of pure, shattering agony, yet it emerges as a sound of awful, hysterical laughter.
He falls to his knees, clutching his throat and chest the organs that produced his stolen, uncursed words.
His bells rings, the ancient magic in his blood wakes up screaming, demanding payment for the freedom he tasted.
He gasps, his body convulsing as the curse forces the laughter out. It is a sound of manic, mocking glee, superimposed over a scream of molten agony he cannot release.
He retches, and crimson splatters onto the cobblestones. He coughs up blood, his shaking frame rocking back and forth in that horrible, forced merriment.
It feels as if someone is ripping rods of molten lava from his throat and heart a thousand hooks tearing the voice out of him, demanding he return to silence, and forcing him to laugh while he bleeds.
Elsbeth backs into a stack of wooden crates, her eyes wide with terror, her face wet with helpless tears.
"Luan!" she screams, reaching out but stopping herself in mid-air.
"Luan!"
The desire to race to him, to cushion his fall, was overwhelming, yet the knowledge was colder than ice: to offer comfort now was to deliver torture anew.
Her gaze clung to his convulsing body, to the blood soaking the stone. Her fingers curled into useless, shaking claws.
I did this.
She watched the mask reappear, a horrifying final stroke of white paint over the face she had just barely revealed.
The name she had given him, the mercy she had whispered it had only bought him this moment of searing agony.
Her love had purchased his torment. She could only watch him pay the cruel price for his words and the name she had given him.
Luan's spasming body stills for a split second. He forces his head up, his eyes filled with agony and liquid blackness locking onto hers.
He sees her fear, her blame, the knowledge that she triggered this freedom and thus this pain.
His jaw is rigid, his throat still burning, but he focuses his will and forces his mouth to move, overriding the searing pain and the habitual laughter.
He speaks, his voice a faint, ragged thread, barely audible over the market's roar.
"E...Elsbeth..." He coughs weakly, spitting a spray of blood onto the ground. "It's... it's alright. See? I can speak clearly. Don't cry. Please... it's alright."
A faint red and white pigment begins to bloom across his cheeks, spreading from the edges of his painted lips where her finger had pressed. The paint, once smudged and washed away by tears and her cleansing touch, is flickering back into existence, as though being freshly applied by an invisible, cruel hand.
He falls fully onto his side, the last of his resistance gone, drowning in the sound of his own cruel, unwanted laughter. She can only watch him as the mask of folly reclaims his true face.
The laughter echoes through the alley a sound only she knows is pain.
Elsbeth presses her fist to her lips.
"Fly anyway," she whispers, though he cannot hear her.[1]
Miles away, the Execution Plaza explodes into chaos.
The rotten fruit hurled by the crowd finally lands, splattering against the empty wooden scaffold.
The crowd blinks, confused. Their target is gone.
The King's face twisting from shock to apoplectic fury. The silence that held him is broken by his own roar.
"DARK SORCERY!"
His voice booms over the terrified plaza. He points a shaking finger at the empty spot.
"I knew it! That creature is a demon! He is trying to destroy my kingdom!" The King's eyes are wild, desperate to control the narrative.
"He has taken the Princess! He has bewitched her mind! He has complete control over her!"
He turns to his frozen guards, screaming until his veins bulge.
"FIND THEM! Find them both NOW! Tear the capital apart if you have to!"
Panic ripples through the crowd like a disease. They rush toward the exits, trampling over each other.
"The Princess is a witch," a woman whispers, clutching her child.
"I knew it," a man hisses. "She was always in that library, reading cursed texts. No wonder she appeared out of the blue. She summoned the beast."
"The Kingdom is doomed.The Witch has her monster."
Amidst the stampede, Sir Rowan stands like a stone in a river. His sword is drawn, but his hand is relaxed.
He remembers the whisper in his ear. Stand down when you wake.
He looks at the screaming King. Slowly, effortlessly, Rowan sheathes his sword.
He does not run with the guards. He does not shout orders.
He slides backward into the shadows of the archway, moving like a ghost. He keeps his head down, cautious, checking for eyes on his back.
While the King hunts for a monster, Sir Rowan turns and heads silently toward the Great Market.
Back in the alley Luan staggers forward, crimson staining the corner of his mouth.
"Let's go… I can walk," he rasps, forcing himself upright.
His hand scrapes along the alley wall for support, each step a battle.
Elsbeth mirrors him, clutching the Book to her chest like a shield.
The alley stretches ahead, dark and silent. Shadows twist unnaturally across the stone.
Then, at the far end… a figure stands perfectly still, watching.
[1] Even if it burns, even if it is my fault,don’t trade flight for captivity again. She accepts the icarus and the sun's role.