Part 1
The lights of Noryork twinkled outside the window, casting long shadows across the polished floors of Enrich Falconhyde's residence. He sat alone in the dimly lit room, the silence pressing in around him like a second skin. The walls, once familiar, now felt foreign, as though they belonged to someone else. He had lived here for three years, serving as the Osgorian ambassador to Norlandia, but in the stillness of this moment, the place felt hollow. Scarlett had filled the emptiness, and now, without her, the silence was unbearable.
Enrich stared at the cold glass of water on the table before him, his mind drifting far from the present. The memories came unbidden, as they often did in moments like this, when he was left alone with nothing but his thoughts.
Scarlett.
She had always been there, even when they lived apart. They had shared a vision—a dream of making the world a better place. He, as a diplomat, striving to reduce the senseless violence of war, and she, working tirelessly to expand the frontiers of medicine, battling diseases that needlessly claimed lives. Their paths had diverged for the sake of that shared mission, with Enrich posted to Norlandia and Scarlett returning to Osgoria to lead the research department of a pharmaceutical company owned by her mother, the Duchess of Lavaria.
For three years, they had lived this way, each dedicated to their work, separated by thousands of miles. But they had never been apart in spirit. Scarlett would visit him when she could, coming to Norlandia for a month every quarter, bringing with her a lightness that transformed the cold formality of his residence into something resembling a home. Her visits were brief, but they sustained him, gave him the strength to carry on with his endless diplomatic duties.
Now, as he sat there in the empty room, he could almost see her, moving gracefully through the space as she had during her last visit. Two months ago. She had smiled as she entered the kitchen, teasing him about how little he ate, how he worked himself into exhaustion.
"Enrich," she had said, her voice light, musical. "You're going to burn out if you keep this up. I've told you—diplomacy doesn't mean skipping meals."
He had laughed, brushing off her concern as he always did. "I know, I know. I'll be fine. I just... there's too much to do. Too much at stake."
Scarlett had smiled softly at him, a smile full of understanding. "There's always too much to do. But we have to take care of ourselves, too."
He should have listened more. He should have appreciated those quiet moments. But back then, he had always thought there would be more time.
Now, there was no time left.
The memory of her was still vivid, as if she had left only yesterday. Her laughter, her scent, the way her presence made the room feel smaller, warmer. Enrich closed his eyes, gripping the arm of the chair until his knuckles turned white. His mind resisted the truth, clinging to the familiarity of her memory, as if by sheer force of will, he could keep her alive in some corner of his world.
"Scarlett?" His voice cracked as he called out into the empty room, the words barely audible, but they hung in the air like a plea. He could almost hear her respond, her voice soft, comforting.
"I'm here, Enrich. I've always been here."
But there was no answer. The silence that followed was unbearable.
His heart twisted painfully in his chest as the reality of her absence settled in. Scarlett was gone. Truly gone. He had known it for weeks now, had watched her funeral through the hollow formality of a screen, unable to even be there to say goodbye. Yet some part of him still refused to accept it, refused to let go of the life they had built together, even from a distance.
They had made this sacrifice together, living apart for the sake of their dream—to make the world a place where people no longer had to suffer needlessly. They had believed that by dedicating themselves to their work, they could help humanity avoid the horrors of unnecessary war, and rid the world of diseases that claimed too many lives. For Enrich, especially, this vision had consumed him. He had thrown himself into his role as ambassador, negotiating treaties, diffusing conflicts, always with the hope that he could make the world a better, more peaceful place.
And Scarlett, always so understanding, had never asked him to stop. She had supported him, even when they had to live apart. She had believed in his mission as much as he did, dedicating herself to her own fight—expanding the ranks of treatable diseases through cutting-edge research.
But now, as he sat there, the weight of it all pressed down on him. The cost of their dream was no longer abstract. It was Scarlett. He had lost her.
The grief came slowly at first, like a chill creeping up his spine. But then it surged forward, raw and overwhelming, pulling him under like a riptide. His chest heaved, and before he could stop it, a sob tore free from his throat. The dam broke, and tears followed, hot and unstoppable. He buried his face in his hands, his body trembling as the grief washed over him.
It had been two months since her last visit. Two months since they had shared their last meal, laughed over nothing, talked about the future they still believed they had together. She had left with a promise that they would see each other soon—another visit, just a few months away.
But that visit would never come. Scarlett had been taken from him, her life cut short in an instant, another casualty of the senseless violence they had both worked so hard to prevent.
Enrich's breath came in shallow gasps as he struggled to contain the flood of emotions. There was no room for rationality here—no diplomatic detachment, no careful words. Only the raw, searing pain of loss.
He had thought they had time. Time to build a future, time to change the world, time to be together. They had sacrificed so much for that future, believing that they could afford to spend their youth on the greater good, on their shared mission. He had convinced himself that the work was worth the sacrifice—that they would have a lifetime to enjoy what they had built. He had been so sure that there would be more chances, more time.
But now, that time was gone.
"I thought we had more time," he whispered, the words slipping through his tears, choked and broken. "I thought we had forever."
Scarlett's final words echoed in his mind, the last message she had left him through Evelyne's recording: Live a happy life. Don't lose sight of who you are. Don't let this consume you, Enrich. Visit me every year... don't forget the times we had.
She had known him so well, even in her final moments. She had feared what this loss would do to him—that it would tear him apart, drag him into the darkness. And now, as he sat here, his world crumbling, he could feel the edges of that darkness creeping in, threatening to swallow him whole.
The anger followed, sharp and cold, as his thoughts turned to Alyssia, the nation that had shattered his life with deliberate malice. They hadn't just taken Scarlett from him in some tragic accident—they had killed her. It was an assassination attempt, carefully planned and ruthlessly executed. Scarlett had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, a mere bystander in their bid to end Empress Evelyne's life. She had thrown herself in harm's way, and in doing so, had been taken from him forever.
Enrich's fury surged, burning through his veins like molten steel. His hands balled into fists, trembling with the force of his rage. This wasn't senseless misfortune—it was murder, calculated and cold-blooded. Someone had planned it. Someone had launched the drone that took her life. He wanted to lash out, to strike down the people who had ripped her from his world. He wanted them to feel the depth of his pain, to suffer as he was suffering, to know what it felt like to lose everything in an instant.
But the more he thought about it, the more his rage spiraled, feeding on itself, deepening the hollow ache in his chest. There was no immediate face to punish, no target to direct his fury toward. Only the shadowy figures behind the attack—those faceless Alyssian operatives, distant and unreachable. They had pulled the strings, set the plan in motion, but they were far from his grasp. He could do nothing but sit in the ruins of his grief.
They had stolen her from him, and he was powerless to take her back.
He stood abruptly, pacing the room, his heart racing. The time he had lost with her—those stolen moments—haunted him. He had traded that time for his work, for a vision of a better world. He had believed that he was saving lives, protecting the future, but at what cost? The future had come at the expense of his present. He had sacrificed his own happiness for people he would never know, people who might never even understand the price he had paid.
But what haunted him most was the time he had taken from her. Scarlett had never complained, had never asked him to choose between her and the world. But he should have known. He should have given her more of himself when he had the chance.
And then, like a cruel echo, a different memory flooded his mind—the dance.
It had been Prince Sokraberg's wedding, and somehow, Enrich had found himself on the ballroom floor with Galatea. The world had marveled at their steps, their fluidity. The dance had been perfect, they said. Word of it had spread across Osgoria's elite circles—how the two of them had moved as though they were in perfect harmony, as though they belonged together. The whispers had followed him for months, even though no photographs existed of that moment, only the rumors and the envy of those who had witnessed it.
When Scarlett had heard about it, she had only laughed softly, her eyes warm with amusement. "I heard you stole the spotlight," she had teased lightly, her smile never faltering. "But I trust you, Enrich. As long as you're happy, I'm happy."
Her trust in him had been so complete, so absolute. It had humbled him.
"Scarlett," he had said, taking her hand in his, his voice gentle, but firm. "Yes, Galatea is beautiful, and everyone was mesmerized by the dance. But no one—no one—has a place in my heart like you do." He had paused, looking into her eyes, letting his words settle between them. "You are the sun that lights my world. Without you, there's only darkness. You're everything to me."
Scarlett had smiled then, a soft, knowing smile that told him she already understood. "I know, Enrich. I've always known."
But now she was gone. And without her, there was only the suffocating darkness he had feared.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I'm so sorry, Scarlett."
But it was too late. She was gone. And no amount of sorrow, no amount of guilt, could bring her back.
Part 2
Ever since arriving back in Noryork, Enrich had carefully avoided the embassy and any public appearances. It wasn't just the weight of the public eye he feared—it was also because Evelyne had come to Norlandia.
The Empress had been visiting him privately at his residence, away from any place where they might be seen. They were both too prominent, their meetings too easily misinterpreted, to risk drawing political speculation. Evelyne, always sensitive to her new position, had been discreet. She hadn't come as an Empress, but as an old friend.
The three of them—he, Evelyne, and Scarlett—had once been inseparable. University friends, bound by years of shared experiences and a common dream to make the world better. Scarlett had returned to Osgoria to work for her mother, but Evelyne remained close to them both. They had always supported each other, no matter what. And now, despite her own grief, Evelyne was here, trying to be there for him.
Enrich had turned her away more than once. Not bluntly, but through vague excuses or abruptly cutting short her visits. He was too consumed by his own pain to face her, too mired in guilt and rage to consider what she might be going through. It was easier to shut her out than to confront the condolences she brought—her sorrow reflecting his own, only amplifying the pain.
But now, in the silence of his room, guilt settled over him like a shadow. Evelyne hadn't just lost Scarlett. She had lost everything. Her entire family had been wiped out by Alyssian missiles in a single tragic moment. She was left to carry that unbearable weight alone, and through it all, Scarlett had been by her side, comforting her. Now Scarlett was gone too, taken in an attack that had been meant for Evelyne.
The realization hit Enrich like a blow—Scarlett had been as important to Evelyne as she was to him. She had been Evelyne's anchor during her darkest moments, just as she had been his. The depth of their bond, which he had been too blinded by his own grief to fully grasp, now struck him with a brutal clarity.
And yet, despite everything she had lost, Evelyne had humbled herself to be there for him. She was Empress, bearing the weight of Avalonia and the aftermath of her family's assassination, and still, she had come. Again and again, despite his rejections, despite his moods. She hadn't done it for political reasons or out of duty—she had done it because Scarlett had asked her to. Evelyne was honoring that request, showing up for him even when he pushed her away.
The thought gnawed at him, hollowing out the anger that had consumed him for so long. Evelyne had always been strong, resilient, but he knew her better than most. She must be breaking under the surface, yet she had never stopped trying to comfort him. She had been so focused on respecting his grief that he had never considered what she might be feeling. He had been selfish, too caught in his own suffering to see that she was enduring just as much—perhaps more.
She hadn't just lost Scarlett. She had lost her entire family, her life shattered by the very war they had both worked so hard to keep at bay. And he had shut her out.
The guilt twisted in his chest, sharper than any pain he had felt before. Scarlett had asked Evelyne to take care of him, to be there when he couldn't be there for himself. Evelyne had done that, balancing her role as Empress with her personal grief. She had offered him the space he thought he needed, but she had never stopped reaching out.
Enrich stared at the city lights of Noryork, the weight of his shame pressing down on him. He couldn't keep doing this. He couldn't keep pushing her away when she was going through her own hell. He needed to stop wallowing in his pain long enough to remember that Evelyne was not just an Empress—she had been his friend long before that. She had lost everything too. He wasn't the only one hurting.
For the first time in days, something shifted inside him. He stood, slowly, feeling a fragile but growing resolve. Evelyne deserved better. Scarlett had asked him, in her final moments, not to lose sight of who he was. He wasn't the kind of person who abandoned his friends, especially not when they needed him most.
With a deep breath, Enrich walked over to his desk and picked up his communicator. Evelyne's latest message flashed on the screen—her gentle offer to visit him again, perhaps to have dinner together. He had brushed it off before, but now, it felt like a lifeline.
He typed a quick response:
"Dinner sounds good. Let's meet Friday tonight."
He hit send, feeling a small but steady sense of relief. He couldn't change the past, and he couldn't bring Scarlett back, but he could honor her wishes. And that started by not pushing away the people who were still here.