The battlefield was a graveyard of ash and blood. Shattered weapons and charred bodies littered the plains, once a verdant stretch of green but now blackened by the Wyrm's final breath. The air was thick with smoke, tinged with the acrid stench of burning flesh and the metallic tang of blood.

Cyril von Esteban, bastard son of Duke Esteban, stood among the ruins, his breath ragged, his legs trembling. His once-pristine armor was battered, streaked with the Wyrm's black ichor. His right hand gripped his sword, the blade cracked and dull but still a symbol of his victory.

The Wyrm, the abomination that had terrorized the kingdom for years, was finally dead. Its massive, serpentine body lay twisted in the distance, its lifeless eyes staring skyward. The battle was won, but the cost had been staggering.

Cyril should have felt triumph. He had fought through blood and fire, facing death itself to deliver the killing blow. But as he stood there, surrounded by the echoes of silence, an dread crept into his chest he knew what was going to happen next. His body ached, but it was the emptiness in his heart that truly weighed him down.

Across the field, she approached.

Princess Elara de Rellonia, the kingdom's hope, moved with grace through the destruction. her silver hair untouched by the soot and grime, her armor gleaming as though she had never entered the fray. Her armor was unscathed, pristine, as though the chaos around her dared not touch her. She was radiant, otherworldly.

Cyril's heart twisted as he watched her draw near. She had been his guiding star, the one he fought for, the one he—he hesitated to name the feeling, though he knew it well. For her, he had willingly faced death itself.

He stumbled to a stop, the last of his strength abandoning him. His gaze met hers, searching desperately for warmth, for gratitude, for love.

Instead, her eyes were cold.

"You did well, Cyril," Elara said, her voice calm and measured. But there was no kindness in her tone—only finality.

The words should have been a balm, a recognition of his efforts. But the hardness in her tone cut deeper than any blade. Cyril opened his mouth to speak, but his throat was dry, his voice refusing to come. He nodded instead, gripping his sword tighter as if it might anchor him.

"I... I did it for you," he rasped, his voice hoarse. "Everything. It was always for you."

For the briefest moment, her expression softened. Pity, perhaps. Regret, even. But it passed quickly, her face hardening once more.

She stopped a few paces away, her hands moving with a deliberate calm. From behind her back, she drew a spear—sleek and deadly, its blade catching the last rays of the setting sun.

Cyril's breath caught.

"Elara," he whispered, his voice trembling now. "What are you doing?"

"You've done enough," she said softly. "More than anyone could have asked. But your power... it's too much , too dangerous . It threatens the kingdom."

His pulse quickened, panic surging. He knew this moment would come. Somewhere deep in his mind, he had always known. But hearing it from her lips made it real, a dagger to his soul.

Cyril's pulse quickened, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. He took a shaky step back. "No... no, I'm loyal to you. I would never—"

Her voice hardened, cutting him off. "It's not about loyalty. It's about what you represent. The others fear you, and they're right too. Your strength, your ambition... it can't be controlled."

Her grip on the spear tightened. The finality in her gaze sent a chill down Cyril's spine.

"Please..." His voice cracked, desperation lacing every syllable. "I can be better. I can—"

Her expression didn't waver. "This is for the greater good."

The spear's tip glinted, and Cyril's heart sank. "You don't have to do this," he pleaded, desperation creeping into his voice. "We can... we can find another way."

Elara stepped closer, her expression unreadable. "There is no other way."

The spear flashed, a blur of steel and inevitability. Cyril barely had time to raise his sword before the spear pierced his chest. The impact drove the breath from his lungs, and a searing pain erupted in his chest, spreading like wildfire through his veins.

He staggered, the strength draining from his body. His legs buckled, and he crumpled to his knees, the world spinning around him.

Blood poured from the wound, warm and relentless, staining the ground beneath him. His vision blurred, the edges darkening. He tried to speak, to call her name, but all that came was a rasping whisper.

"Elar.. Why...?" he choked, his voice broken. "Why can't you... love me...?

Elara didn't answer. She simply turned and walked away, her form disappearing into the smoke-filled horizon.

Cyril's vision darkened. His thoughts grew sluggish, his body felt cold he stared toward sky.