Under a sun that baked the cobblestones until they cracked, the festival lived like an organism of its own. Merchants shouted back and forth, their voices overlapping in a chaotic yet familiar chorus. Children darted between the legs of adults, their laughter bursting into the air like soap bubbles drifting too high.
In the narrow gap between two stone buildings leaning against each other like weary old men, Rion emerged with a light step—far too light for someone who had just completed a transaction that wasn't exactly clean.
Sylvia was already waiting for him. Her back was against the wall, arms folded across her chest, and her gaze said she'd better hear some good news.
"How?" Sylvia asked.
In response, Rion opened his palm. There lay two necklaces—delicate, nearly invisible, like silver threads woven by an incredibly patient hand. Their design was identical to those once worn by Althair and his companions: disguise artifacts, capable of altering the wearer's hair color, irises, and even their tone of voice into something foreign to anyone who knew them.
"It didn't go perfectly smooth," Rion answered, carefully fastening one necklace around Sylvia's neck. His fingers moved slowly, like someone afraid of breaking something precious. "But I managed to handle it."
He smiled. It wasn't the smile he had shown the artifact dealer, nor the one he used at the negotiating table—it was a small smile that only grew when no one asked for it. The kind of smile only Sylvia knew the difference of.
"Did the seller realize?"
"Yes. But I managed to persuade him to stay quiet." Rion paused for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly as if still dwelling on the encounter. "Once he found out who I was... he actually gave them to me for free. Gladly. Even though I didn't ask."
Sylvia stared at him for a few beats, then smiled—softly, like a breeze turning a street corner.
"Kindness doesn't need to be requested, you know? There are still plenty of good people in this world."
Rion fell silent. Behind his eyes, something stirred, but it didn't reach the surface. Finally, he only replied quietly, "Fair enough."
The necklaces worked instantly. Like ink dissolving in water, their original hair colors faded and shifted—both turning into a warm, earthy brown, with their irises following suit. The only difference was in their voices: Rion's now sounded smoother than usual, while Sylvia's dropped a few octaves, taking on an unusual but not unfamiliar weight.
"Ion..." Sylvia used his nickname out of habit, "you've prepared our itinerary for today, haven't you?"
The question sounded innocent. But beneath it, Sylvia had already guessed the answer.
Rion gave a thin smile—the smile of a man caught red-handed but unrepentant.
"Actually... not yet."
Sylvia pressed her fingertips to her temple, as if bracing for a predictable headache. Then, without a word, she grabbed Rion's hand—gripping it firmly—and dragged him out of the narrow alley toward the crowd.
"Today, you're just following me."
"Yes, my princess."
Rion looked down at his hand, now held in hers—the warmth traveled upward, settling somewhere deep inside. Then he looked up at the figure in front of him: the artifact-brown hair swaying gently, the straight back, the stride that never wavered. Sylvia, at 165 centimeters tall—just five centimeters shorter than him—walked as if she truly owned these streets.
Will you be my greatest heartbreak... or my greatest love?
Rion didn't know. But for now, he let her hold his hand.
The Mois District differed from the rest of the city the way an old market differs from an art gallery—not inferior, just more honest. Nobles never came here, and the streets seemed to know it: the stones were more worn, the banners more faded, but the laughter here was louder and more real.
Street vendors lined the paths without a gap—food, drinks, tattered fabrics spread out like bird wings, brass accessories mimicking gold, and handicrafts made by hands that hadn't time to study art but had found time to learn love.
For Rion and Sylvia, this place wasn't just a destination. It was a habit born of repetition—at first, Sylvia had dragged Rion here, until eventually, their feet memorized the way home on their own. This festival, this district, had become part of an unwritten pattern between them: if you go to the festival, don't miss the Mois District.
Their first step was always the same—gingerbread.
The stall stood on a street corner, run by an old man whose hands were more nimble than his age suggested. The cookies were shaped like little bears—round, plump, with edible gold leaf clinging to the surface like stars that had fallen and decided to stay.
Rion ordered a small bag of eight pieces, priced at ten bronze coins. He placed five silver coins on the table—more than requested, far more than requested—then brought his index finger to his lips, signaling the merchant to be silent.
"It's your lucky day."
The merchant's eyes welled up. Five silver coins—enough to buy fine linen for his daughter, who had wanted it for so long. It wasn't luxury, just warmth. But sometimes, warmth is the greatest luxury.
"Thank you, sir."
They turned to leave—but the merchant hurried to catch Rion's arm.
"Wait, Sir, Miss. Let me make a few more cookies for you."
Sylvia was the one who answered. Her hand gently covered the merchant's—not to reject him, but to guide him.
"Give those to those who can't afford to buy any. That is the best way you can repay our kindness."
The merchant nodded, his eyes still damp.
They walked away under the wave of his hand—"Take care!" the merchant shouted, his smile as wide as the morning sky.
The aroma of the cookies wafted up, a blend of cinnamon and cloves as warm as a grandmother's hug. The texture was soft yet firm—dense, not crumbly, a sweetness that didn't beg for attention because it was already there from the start.
Sylvia had already devoured two pieces before Rion finished his first. There was a small crumb at the corner of her lip, and she was completely unaware of it.
Rion noticed. His thumb moved on its own, brushing the corner of Sylvia's mouth—briefly, lightly, like a planned coincidence.
"Eat slowly. The cookies aren't going anywhere."
Sylvia swallowed the last bite, then looked at Rion with an expression somewhere between bashful and indifferent.
"It's been so long since I've had these. And you know I have a sweet tooth."
Rion patted the top of her head—gently, like one might pat a favorite dog that just messed up a bookshelf but remains impossible to stay mad at.
"Yes, I remember. You can have mine later."
"Yay... thanks!"
They found the Moonlight Archery game at the third turn—a wooden booth with five small silver plates spinning on gears, moving in a circle with enough speed to separate the serious players from the amateurs. The prizes were displayed above: flower brooches and a grey teddy bear with button eyes.
Rion looked at the prizes with the expression of someone assessing a dilapidated property.
Cheap junk. Better to buy at a shop.
Then he glanced sideways—at Sylvia, whose gaze had been glued to that teddy bear for a while, like a magnet that couldn't pretend it wasn't attracted.
"Sylpi—do you want that? If so, I'll get it for you."
Sylvia turned her gaze, pretending to consider it for a moment.
"Yeah. That bear is really cute. If you can get the bear, I'll get the brooch for you."
Rion stepped up to the counter, placing a gold coin in front of the stall owner.
"Two games—for me, and for my wife back there."
The wind seemed to stop for a second. Or at least, that's how it felt to Sylvia—because suddenly her cheeks felt like a campfire left in a dry forest.
Why did he say that? How embarrassing...
Her lips pressed into a tight line. She bit her lower lip.
On the other hand, the stall owner was shocked by the gesture. "B-but sir... this is too much. It's only 5 bronze coins."
"Keep the change for your children," Rion replied generously, though inwardly he felt a twinge of disgust at touching the bow that had been used by so many people.
Rion grabbed the provided bow with a movement that suggested he had done this a thousand times—or at least often enough not to need to look serious. But before he turned to the target, he glanced at Sylvia once.
"Want to compete with me?"
The corner of Sylvia's mouth quirked up. She loved a challenge more than she ever admitted.
"What's the stake?"
"The winner gets one request granted."
"Fine—you're on."
Rion raised the bow. The string was pulled, breath half-held. The first four plates shattered one by one—clean, precise, the sound like the ticking of a punctual clock.
The fifth plate waited at the edge of the rotation.
Rion paused.
This is too easy... but what should I ask of Sylvia later?
Behind him, Sylvia began to frown. Why wasn't he shooting? Was he nervous? Impossible. But why the long pause?
The arrow flew.
The fifth plate shattered—but not in the center. Silver shards scattered to the right, marking a shot that was right in the result, but not in the execution.
Damn. It broke, but it wasn't perfect.
The stall owner clapped, approaching Rion with the smile of a man accustomed to admiring simple things.
"Congratulations, Sir! The prizes are yours to choose."
"The teddy bear."
Rion brought the bear to Sylvia and handed it over—without many words, like a gift that was already hers to begin with.
"Hold this for a moment. It's my turn." Sylvia took the bear, but her eyes were already on the bow. "That fifth shot of yours wasn't perfect. If I can do better, that means I win—right?"
Rion tucked the teddy bear against his own chest, then gave a single nod.
"Fine. Go ahead."
"Watch and learn from a pro."
"Okay." His response was half-hearted, but his eyes didn't stray from her.
Sylvia stepped forward. And Rion watched in a silence that felt more crowded than before.
Can she really do it? No, why am I doubting her. She's a mage. Long-range accuracy is more her domain than mine.
Rion's right hand clenched without him realizing it. He didn't like losing—especially in things he considered his forte. It was a flaw, but one he hadn't discarded.
And Sylvia proved it.
All five plates shattered—one by one, in sequence, each exactly in the center. Nothing remained but shards falling symmetrically onto the wooden floor of the stall.
Instead of taking a second bear, Sylvia took the brooch—and walked back to Rion with a smile as wide as the victory she had just seized.
"I WIN! BLEHHH!!"
She stuck her tongue out. Pure mockery. No layers, no diplomacy—just the most honest taunt ever directed at him.
And strangely—the irritation evaporated. Like dew losing to the sun. In Rion's chest, there was something warm, something without a proper name, something more annoying than the defeat itself because he couldn't reject it.
Before he could name the feeling, Sylvia took two steps and jumped.
Rion caught her. Without asking. His arms opened on their own, like a door that had memorized the footsteps of its regular visitor.
"LOOK! Your wife is pretty good, isn't she?" Sylvia's arms wrapped around Rion's neck, her voice still vibrating with the remnants of her laughter.
"Yes," Rion said. Softly. Earnestly. "You're very good. I'm proud of you."
"Hehehe."
They exchanged gifts. The brooch for Rion, the teddy bear for Sylvia.
Rion inspected the brooch in his palm. A light alloy with gold plating that had already faded at the edges. Plastic beads trying to mimic crystals—and failing in a sincere way. Satin fabric petals held together by glue that had dried and was slightly peeling at the rim.
This brooch... is so pathetic. But for some reason, I don't want to throw it away. In fact, I want to wear it.
Strange.
They continued their journey—roasted peanuts coated in forest honey with a sweetness that wasn't artificial, then a group of children tugging at their sleeves in an unplanned direction.
Sylvia sat cross-legged on a bed of straw, surrounded by three little girls who stared at her with wide, expectant eyes. In her hands were wooden hand puppets—two on the right, one on the left—and she moved them with the serious expression of a veteran director, performing a comedy about a clumsy knight chased by a dragon for stealing the empress's strawberry jam.
The children laughed until they toppled over.
On the other side of the straw, Rion led three boys, each holding a thin tree branch as a sword and riding wooden hobby horses. He walked tall in front of them, chin lifted as if returning from a very important battlefield—and the children followed with ragged breath and uncontrollable laughter.
Without looking at each other, both knew the other was there.
The sun began to dip toward the west. Its light no longer baked, but colored—red on the edges of roofs, orange on people's heads, gold on everything left behind. The festival atmosphere was still bustling; for some reason, today felt livelier than usual.
Rion sat on an old wooden beam by the roadside—the teddy bear on his lap, the cheap brooch pinned to his collar. Sylvia dropped down beside him, their shoulders touching without either of them moving away.
No one spoke for a while.
A breeze passed, carrying the scent of gingerbread and roasted wood from the end of the street that was beginning to quiet down. In the distance, someone played a string instrument with notes that didn't follow a specific melody, just wanting to be heard.
"Are you satisfied with today?" Sylvia finally asked. Her voice was quiet, different from earlier that afternoon.
Rion looked ahead—at the streets of the Mois District that were slowly returning to their true selves.
"More than that."
Sylvia turned, a bit surprised by the unsolicited honesty. She waited for the next sentence—but Rion didn't continue. He only spun the cheap brooch with his finger once, then let it stay in its place.
Sylvia stopped waiting, too. She leaned her head onto Rion's shoulder—slowly, like someone testing if the floor in front of them was strong enough to step on.
It was.
Rion didn't move. He only looked at the brooch one more time—cheap metal, plastic beads, dried glue—and decided that perhaps not everything precious needs to look precious.
Maybe that was the answer.
Whichever the question was.
— ✦ —
A first-quarter moon hung in the sky—bright enough to illuminate the dark alleys of the streets, but not so bright as to strain the eyes. Rion sat with his back against a cold iron fence, while Sylvia lay with her head in his lap.
His fingers moved automatically—combing through Sylvia's brown hair in a familiar rhythm. He had been doing this since they were children. Once in the palace gardens, now here. Some things never changed.
"Ion," Sylvia's voice was soft—nearly merging with the night wind.
"Hm?"
"You still remember my affinity, don't you? Lunar Water."
Rion's hand paused—only for a second, but Sylvia noticed. She always noticed.
"...Of course I remember." His hand resumed its movement, more cautious now. "Why the sudden question?"
Sylvia didn't answer immediately. Her eyes remained closed, but there was a tension in her jaw that hadn't been there before.
"Have you lost control again?" Rion asked—gently, but the question wasn't mere courtesy. Lunar Water was unstable. It shifted with the phases of the moon.
"Once." Sylvia's voice went even quieter. "At the academy. Luckily, a professor stopped me before... before it got worse."
Rion's jaw tightened. "How bad?"
"The training dummy was completely pulverized. And... a few students who were too close got frostbite." Sylvia opened her eyes—staring at the sky, not at Rion. "It was an accident. But... still. It's dangerous."
Rion's hand moved from her hair to her cheek—his thumb gently stroking her cheekbone. It was a gesture meant to be comforting, yet there was a slight tremor in his fingers.
"You don't need to worry now." His voice was smooth—practiced. "I'm right here beside you."
Sylvia closed her eyes again, melting into his touch. "...Thank you."
But behind Rion's perfect smile, his mind was racing.
Today, I don't have to be the Prince. I'm just... Ion. And for some reason, that's terrifying. Because Ion is someone even I don't recognize.
Who am I, really?
The man who raped Elisa?
The man planning to overthrow my Father?
Or... the man now stroking Sylvia's hair as if she were the most precious thing in the world?
Rion looked down at Sylvia's face—peaceful, trusting, vulnerable.
No. All of that is me.
The Chosen Hero. The Crown Prince. A brother. Rion von Moonstone. And Ion.
All of them are my identities.
The question isn't 'who am I'—it's 'which one is real?'
And he didn't know the answer.
Sylvia opened her eyes—slowly.
"Ion." She sat up, and they were now face-to-face. "How is your daily life at the academy? Is everything going smoothly?"
A standard question. Safe territory. Rion grabbed onto it.
"Smoothly. As usual." His smile was slight—automatic. "Why? Worried someone is bothering me?"
"You are The Chosen Hero. Of course many people want to... get close to you." Sylvia's tone was neutral, but there was a sharp edge to it. Not jealousy—something more complicated.
"And you?" Rion flipped the question back. "One of the strongest students at Azurecrest Maritime Academy, they say. Should I be worried about... admirers?"
Sylvia let out a short, genuine laugh. "Please. They're all boring."
"Boring?"
"Too... predictable. Too safe." She paused—as if weighing something. "Not like..."
"Like?"
"...It's not important." Sylvia waved her hand dismissively, but her face turned a slight shade of pink.
Rion's eyes narrowed—not with suspicion, but curiosity. "Sylpi. You're hiding something."
"I'm not—"
"You're a terrible liar." Rion's thumb traced her jawline. "Tell me."
A long pause followed. Sylvia bit her lower lip—a nervous gesture that was rare for her.
"We're getting married tomorrow," she said finally. "Binding body, soul, and heart. Forever. And... I want to be honest. Completely."
Rion's pulse spiked. Honest. That word—
"Okay." His voice stayed calm despite his racing heart. "I'm listening."
Sylvia took a deep breath. Her fingers began to fidget—another rare tell.
"I... I like reading romance. Dark romance. The... toxic kind. Possessive. Dangerous." The words tumbled out fast—like ripping off a band-aid. "And... and sometimes I fantasize about... a relationship like that."
Silence.
Rion's mind went blank for three seconds. Then—
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
What does she want me to be? The monster I hide? Or the angel I project?
If she knew about Elisa—about what I'm capable of—would she be...
Turned on? Disgusted? Both?
"Ion?" Sylvia's voice was small—vulnerable in a way Rion rarely heard. "Are you... angry?"
"Angry?" Rion blinked, refocusing. "Why would I be angry?"
"Because I called you boring—I mean, I used to think you were boring but—" She was rambling now, panic creeping in. "I know it's childish and stupid and now I realize you're exactly the type who—"
Rion pulled her close—her head tucked under his chin, his arms wrapped tight. It wasn't graceful. It was almost desperate.
"Stop." His voice was rough. "You don't need to... apologize for your preferences. Or your fantasies. Or... anything inside your head."
Sylvia's hands clenched his robes—not pulling away, but not relaxing either.
"But—"
"When we are married," Rion cut her off, "you're still allowed to read those stories. I understand that everyone has... different tastes."
And maybe, just maybe, you have no idea how close to reality those fantasies are.
Maybe you're attracted to the monster you think I'm not.
Maybe you'd run if you knew.
Rion's hand trembled against her back. He forced it to stay still.
"Sylvia." His voice dropped lower—serious in a way that made her look up. "We were destined to be together before we were even born. But... from the bottom of my heart—not because of destiny, not because of family—do you accept this?"
Her eyes searched his face. Looking for... what? Sincerity? Deception? Both?
"Yes." No hesitation. "You were the only boy who would play with me when the others wouldn't. You're... my favorite."
Something cracked in Rion's chest—a small fissure in armor he didn't know was there.
"What if I'm not as good as you imagine?" His hands were shaking now—visible. Undeniable. "I mean... what if everything I've shown you all this time is just... a mask?"
Please run. Please stay. Please—
Sylvia's hands covered his—steadying the tremor.
"Everyone has masks, Ion." Her voice was soft but firm. "A mask for family. A mask for friends. A mask for the world." She leaned closer—their foreheads almost touching. "What matters is... who is allowed to see what's behind the mask."
"And if what's behind the mask is... a monster?"
The word hung between them—heavy, sharp, terrifying.
Sylvia didn't flinch.
"Then I will love that monster, too." Simple. Absolute. "Because that monster is Ion. And I want to know every side—not just the beautiful ones."
Rion's breath caught. Liar. She's lying. She doesn't know what she's saying. If she knew about Elisa, about my plans, about...
"What if you leave me after finding out?"
"I won't run." She pressed their foreheads together—eyes closing, breath mingling. "I will always choose you. Even on the days we don't understand each other. Even when we fight. Even when—" Her voice cracked. "—even when you hate yourself."
Rion watched Sylvia as she closed her eyes. They were only inches apart—close enough to see every detail. Her long eyelashes. The slight flush on her cheeks. Her lips trembling faintly, nervous but not backing away.
Rion gave a low chuckle. The sound that vibrated from his throat felt foreign to him. Was this a laugh? Or something else?
My chest is tight. Not the tightness I feel when I'm angry. This is... different. Like something is pressing from the inside, trying to get out. What is this? Happiness? Sadness? Fear?
I don't know.
I've never known.
His hands, framing Sylvia's head, began to tremble.
Sylvia felt the tremor. Behind her closed eyelids, her mind raced. He's shaking. Ion never shakes. Even when we were kids, when he fell from a tree and broke his arm—he didn't cry. He didn't shake. But now...
Rion felt the warmth of her body. Her steady heartbeat—calm and trusting. It was so different from his own chaotic, irregular pulse, like a trapped bird beating against its ribcage.
"I will always choose you, even on the days we don't understand each other."
Those words spun in his head. Over and over. Like a mantra he couldn't stop.
Lies.
It has to be a lie.
Everyone lies when they say "forever." Father lied. Moralina lied—she said she'd always be here, but then she died and left me. Rakesh lied—he said he loved me, but then he stole everything that was supposed to be mine.
But...
His eyes drifted down to Sylvia's hand, which was gripping his own. Her grip was firm. Warm. Without a trace of doubt.
But why isn't her hand shaking? Why isn't she afraid? Does she not know—does she not see—that I...
Elisa's face surfaced in his mind. Her hollow eyes. That vacant expression—because he was the one who had destroyed it.
Monster.
His heart burned. A familiar heat. This, he recognized. This was—
Anger? No. Not anger. This is... what do they call it?
Guilt?
That alien word emerged quietly in the corner of his mind. He didn't like that word. He never allowed himself to feel it. But now, with Sylvia in his arms, with the honest words that had just spilled from his own mouth...
Sylvia opened her eyes slightly—just a tiny crack—to peek at Rion's expression. What she saw made something in her chest tighten even harder.
His face... I've never seen him like this. Sylvia swallowed hard. Like a frightened little boy. Like the Ion of old—before he learned to wear a mask. Before he decided that showing emotion was a weakness.
She closed her eyes again quickly before Rion realized she was peeking. But it was too late—
"Sylpi?" Rion's voice was soft. Cracked. "Were you... looking at me?"
Damn it. Sylvia opened her eyes fully now. There was no point in pretending.
"Yes," she answered honestly. "I'm sorry. I just... I wanted to see your expression. A real expression."
Rion's body tensed. It was a reflex—the urge to pull away, to shut down, to retreat into the safety of his mask.
But Sylvia felt that tension and—without thinking—she gripped him tighter.
"Don't," she whispered urgently. "Don't close off again. Please."
Please don't leave me on the outside again. Please let me in. Just once. Please—
Rion stopped. He remained tense, but he didn't pull away.
She said "please." His thoughts were in chaos. No one has ever asked for access to the inside. They just... assume. Or demand. Or manipulate. But she... she's asking. As if I have a choice. As if I have agency in this.
"What if everything I've shown you all this time is just a mask?"
—I've already opened the door. And now I don't know how to close it again.
"Rion?" Sylvia's voice was quiet, her brow furrowing slightly. "You've been quiet for a long time. What are you thinking about?"
What am I thinking about?
I'm thinking about how I could destroy you. How I could use this love—if this even is love—as a weapon against my father. How I could make Alarik suffer by showing him that his best friend's daughter now belongs to me. Belongs to the monster he created.
I'm thinking about how I can escape this conversation before I say too much. Before I give you the weapon to destroy me.
I'm thinking—
His body shook again. Harder now. Sylvia had to feel it.
—about what it would feel like if someone truly accepted me. Not Rion the Crown Prince. Not Rion the Chosen Hero. But me. This version. The broken one. The...
"I..." His voice came out raspy. He hated how weak it sounded. "I'm thinking... about how to explain myself to you."
Sylvia waited. She didn't push. She was just... there.
She isn't interrupting. She isn't forcing me to hurry. She's just... waiting. Something in Rion's chest loosened slightly.
Sylvia, meanwhile, was battling her own impulses. I want to say "I understand." I want to reassure him. But... I don't fully understand. How could I? I've never lived inside his head. So instead—
"You don't have to explain everything right now," Sylvia said. "We have a lifetime."
A lifetime.
Rion's breath hitched. Sylvia heard it.
Oh no. That was the wrong thing to say. He's panicking. I can feel it—his heart is beating faster under my hand. Why—
Then she understood. A "lifetime" isn't a sweet promise to him. It's... a prison. A commitment with no escape. He's afraid of being trapped—
"Sylvia..." His voice came out as a whisper.
Sylvia's heart clenched. Sylvia, not Sylpi. He rarely calls me by my real name.
"Yes?" Her voice was soft. An invitation, not a demand.
Rion took a deep breath. A long one. His body trembled with the effort of holding back—what? He didn't know. Tears? Screams? Both?
I have to say something. But what? "I am the man who raped a servant and I plan to use you as a weapon against my father"? No. Too much. Too fast. She would run. Or worse—she would stay because of the contract, because of politics, and she would hate me.
But she said she wouldn't run.
But everyone says that until they see the true darkness.
His hand moved without his permission—lifting Sylvia's hand, bringing it to his chest, pressing it over his wildly beating heart.
"Feel this."
Sylvia felt it. The heartbeat beneath her palm—fast, irregular, panicked.
Oh, Ion.
"This... I don't know what this is." Rion's voice broke. "I don't know if it's fear, or happiness, or—"
He stopped. Swallowed. Tried again.
"I can never tell. What I'm feeling. I just... I analyze. My body. And I guess."
Sylvia's eyes widened. Oh.
Oh.
He... he really doesn't know. This isn't manipulation. This isn't an act. He is genuinely confused by his own emotions. How did I never notice this before? How—
Guilt gnawed at her. Because I never truly looked. I saw the mask and assumed it was enough. I saw the "Chosen Hero" and never asked what was underneath.
Her hand stayed on Rion's chest. She didn't move. She just felt. She listened.
Rion forced himself to continue. "RightSekarang my chest is tight. My hands are shaking. My heart is... burning. But it's not anger. This isn't anger. This is—"
He closed his eyes. He couldn't look at Sylvia while saying this part.
"—it's like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff. You're asking me to jump. And you say you'll catch me. But I don't know—"
Don't cry. Don't cry. A prince must be strong. Men don't cry. Your weakness will be used against you—
"—I don't know if you're lying."
Silence.
Sylvia felt something break in her chest. It wasn't painful. It was like... a wall crumbling. Like finally understanding something that had been a blur for so long.
He doesn't trust anyone. Not even me. Maybe especially not me—because I'm the closest. The most dangerous if I were to betray him.
Tears pooled in the corners of her eyes.
But I won't. I will never betray him. I won't—
Her other hand reached up, touching Rion's face. Gently. As if touching something incredibly fragile.
"Rion."
It wasn't a question. Not a statement. Just... his name. Like a prayer.
Rion opened his eyes.
What he saw made the tightness in his chest—which was already suffocating—even tighter.
Sylvia was crying. Tears flowed silently, but her smile—
Why is she smiling? Why is she crying but smiling? What does this mean? What—
"Thank you." Sylvia's voice trembled, but it was clear.
Thank you? Rion's mind went blank. For what? For showing you how broken I am? For—
"Thank you for being honest. Thank you for... letting me see this."
Sylvia wiped her tears with her free hand—the other was still on Rion's chest, feeling the heartbeat that was still chaotic.
I'm afraid, she thought. I'm so afraid. Not of Ion. I'm afraid FOR Ion. I'm afraid I won't be enough. I'm afraid I won't be able to help him. Afraid I'll fuck this up and lose him—not physically, but emotionally. He'll stay because of the vow, but he'll be gone inside. And that... that's worse than losing him completely.
But she didn't say any of that. Instead—
"I'm not afraid, Ion."
Lie. I am afraid. But not of you.
"I'm not afraid of the cliff. I'm not afraid to jump."
Another lie. I am terrified. But I'll do it anyway.
"Because—"
She took a breath. Be honest. He was honest with you. Now it's your turn.
"—because I jumped a long time ago. Since I was a child. I had already fallen for you before I even understood what falling in love meant."
Rion's eyes widened. What—what does she mean—
Sylvia continued, her voice gaining strength. "And now I just want you to believe that I will catch you. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But one day—you will believe me. And I can wait."
I can wait. However long it takes. A lifetime if necessary. Because you are worth it.
Rion felt it in his chest again—that heat. That tightness. But now there was... warmth? Not the heat of anger. Not the heat of panic. But something... foreign. Unfamiliar. Not uncomfortable, but—
Is this what people call... hope?
He didn't know. He might never know for sure.
Sylvia saw the shift in his face—subtle, nearly invisible, but she had spent her entire childhood learning to read Rion's micro-expressions. She saw the rigidity in his shoulders loosen. She saw his jaw unclenching. She saw his eyes—always calculating, always guarded—now just... tired. Vulnerable. Human.
He's letting go. A little bit. It's enough.
Her hand moved from Rion's face to the back of his head, drawing their foreheads together again.
"You don't have to be perfect for me, Ion. You don't have to be the 'Chosen Hero' or the 'Perfect Prince' in our home. You just have to... be you. Whoever that is. I will learn. We will learn together."
Please believe me. Please.
Rion felt the hot moisture on his cheeks. When did it start? He didn't know. His body was doing something without his permission—again. But this time, he didn't try to stop it.
"I..." His voice broke. Shattered. But it was real. "I don't know if I can be a good husband."
I will probably fuck this up. I will hurt you without meaning to. I will—
"I don't know if I can love you the way you deserve to be loved."
Because I don't know what love is. I don't know how to recognize it, let alone give it.
"I don't even know what love actually is."
Sylvia's heart broke a little. Of course he doesn't know. Who ever showed him? Not Alarik. Not the concubines. Moralina—maybe. But she was gone too soon.
"But—"
Rion gripped Sylvia tighter. Desperate. As if he were afraid she would vanish if he let go.
"—but I want to try. With you. Only with you."
Because you... you make me feel... I don't know. Less alone. Like maybe I could... fuck, I don't know how to say this.
"I want to... I want to believe that maybe—just maybe—I'm not too broken to be saved."
Sylvia laughed—a small sound, wet with tears, but genuine. Rion was confused by the sound. Why is she laughing? Did I say something funny? What—
"You don't need to be saved, Ion." Sylvia shook her head slowly. "You aren't a damsel in distress."
You're just... lost. And being lost isn't the same as being broken.
She kissed Rion's forehead—brief, soft, chaste.
Rion froze. What—why—what does—
"You just need... company. While you walk out of the darkness. I'll walk with you. Every step of the way."
Even when you backslide. Even when you push me away. Even when you test me. I will stay.
Rion felt that sensation in his chest—the tightness was still there, but now... it was different. It wasn't choking him. It was more like... being full. Full of something he couldn't name.
Maybe "tight" can also mean "full." Full of something I don't have to define in order to feel.
Without thinking—or perhaps thinking so much that his mind short-circuited—Rion buried his face in the crook of Sylvia's neck.
Sylvia gasped—surprised, but not pushing him away. Her arms wound around Rion's back, holding him tight.
Oh. Oh, he's... he's seeking comfort. Actual, physical comfort. Not manipulative. Not performative. Just... needing to be held.
Her tears flowed more freely now. When was the last time someone held him like this? When was the last time he allowed it?
She felt Rion's body tremble—it could no longer be hidden, no longer controlled. She heard his ragged breath. She felt the wetness on her shoulder—the tears Rion couldn't stop.
"I've got you," she whispered softly. "I've got you."
And I won't let go. Never.
Rion heard those words. And a part of him—the cynical, survival-mode, genius manipulator part—whispered: Lies. This is a lie. She'll leave. Everyone leaves. Everyone—
But another part—the small part, the part that was still the six-year-old boy playing in the garden with Sylvia, who hadn't yet learned that trust was a weakness—that part whispered even softer: What if she doesn't? What if... this time... it's real?
He didn't know which was true.
He might never know for sure.
But for tonight—for the night before the wedding—for this brief moment where the world narrowed down to just the two of them—
—Rion allowed himself to believe.
Sylvia felt the exact moment Rion's body relaxed. Not completely. Not totally. But... enough.
Enough for now.
Her hand moved to Rion's hair, stroking it gently. Soothing him. The way Moralina might have done—but softer. More careful. Like touching something precious.
They stayed like that—they didn't know for how long. Time felt irrelevant.
There was only: Heartbeats slowly syncing. Breath gradually steadying. The warmth of skin against skin. A silence that wasn't awkward, just... shared.
Finally—it was unclear who started it—they slowly released their embrace.
Not fully. They were still holding hands. Still close.
Rion looked at Sylvia. His eyes were red. His face was wet. There was no mask—for perhaps the first time in his adult life.
Sylvia looked back. Her eyes were red too. Her smile was soft.
"Hi," she said. Silly. Inappropriate for the moment. But somehow... fitting.
"Hi," Rion replied. His voice was hoarse. But there was a ghost of a smile on his lips.
A real smile.
Tiny. Fragile. But real.
"Tomorrow," Sylvia said softly, "we get married."
"Yes." Rion swallowed. "Are you afraid?"
Please say yes. Please tell me I'm not alone in this fear.
"Terrified," Sylvia answered honestly. "You?"
Thank God.
"Yes." Rion's hand tightened around hers. "Very much so."
They were quiet for a moment.
Then—simultaneously—both of them laughed. A nervous laugh. Slightly hysterical. But genuine.
"We're a disaster waiting to happen, aren't we?" Sylvia said, wiping away tears—whether they were sad or happy, she wasn't sure.
"Probably." Rion's smile widened slightly—still small, but more present. "But... maybe that's okay?"
Maybe we don't have to have all the answers. Maybe we just... figure it out. Together. Like she said.
"Maybe," Sylvia agreed. "Maybe we'll fuck up. Maybe we'll fight. Maybe there will be days we hate each other."
"How comforting," Rion said dryly.
Sylvia squeezed his hand. "But we'll try. And keep trying. And that's... that's what commitment is, isn't it?"
Not never failing. But never giving up.
Rion looked at their joined hands. Sylvia's hand—smaller, softer—but her grip was firm. Steady. An anchor.
"Yes," he said softly. "I think... yes."
They remained like that—sitting close, holding hands, in a comfortable silence—until the light outside began to fade.
The night was deepening.
Tomorrow would come.
Tomorrow they would be married.
Tomorrow everything would change.
But for now—
—it was enough to sit together in the darkness.
Holding on.
Both scared.
Both hoping.
Both... trying.