Luka was pitiful.

A man who despised himself more than anyone else ever could.

He despised the way his hands quivered at the slightest hint of fear, betraying him every time he needed to appear strong. He despised the way his voice faltered, the tremor revealing the cracks in his bravado no matter how hard he tried to mask them. But most of all, he despised his own weakness—a weight that clung to him like a shackle, tightening with every failure.

And tonight, that weight became unbearable, transforming into a noose tightening with every breath.

"Don't touch her, you fucking bastard!" He cursed, his voice cutting through the damp, oppressive air, hoarse and broken, stripped raw by desperation.

The filthy, dimly lit room swallowed his cries, answering him with the guttural, mocking laughter of the men holding him down. They didn't flinch, their iron grip pinning his arms and legs to the ground. His cheek pressed against the coarse floor, the grit biting into his skin like shards of glass. Pain seared through him, but he welcomed it—it was nothing compared to the agony of his heart.

Forcing his head up, Luka strained against their grip just to see her.

The sight shattered him.

I don't think there's a soul alive who wouldn't break at the sight of it—a living nightmare unraveling before his eyes, one he was utterly powerless to stop.

She lay there, her gown shredded, the once-delicate fabric torn apart as if it held no more value than rags. The man towering over her—grinning like a predator savoring his kill—placed a calloused hand on her breast, gripping her like she was nothing more than an object to be claimed.

Her eyes, wide and brimming with tears, locked onto Luka's.

He couldn't look away. He wouldn't let himself.

He couldn't dare.

Her lips trembled as though trying to form words, but nothing escaped them—only tears, silent and gut-wrenching. Her expression clawed at his soul, filled with pleading, with desperate, wordless cries for salvation. And beneath that despair, something even more devastating lingered. Resignation.

She didn't believe he could save her. She knew he couldn't.

Luka's chest tightened. Weakness. That cursed word echoed in his mind like a death knell, a reminder of every time he had failed. Everytime he had been utterly useless. He roared, thrashing with every ounce of strength he could muster.

"I said let her go!" The words tore from him, savage and raw, as if sheer volume could shatter the chains binding him. "You filthy animals! Let her go!"

The man's grin deepened, as though his fury was nothing more than a pathetic joke. He leaned closer to her, his breath foul as he whispered something inaudible. She flinched, turning her face away in a futile attempt to escape his looming presence.

"Get your filthy hands off her!" Luka screamed again, his throat tearing with the effort. Tears blurred his vision, but he didn't care. His arms burned, his muscles threatening to tear as he thrashed beneath the men's crushing weight. "I'll kill you! I'll kill all of you!"

"Even if it means losing every piece of myself in the process."

"Even if I have to sell my soul to the devil himself."

"I swear, I'll haunt every single one of you. I'll haunt you even in death!"

Their laughter cut through his rage like a dagger, sharp and unrelenting. Hollow and cruel, it carried the weight of inevitability.

One of the men holding him leaned down, his scarred face mere inches from Luka's. The man's cold, lifeless eyes gleamed with sadistic amusement. "Big words," he sneered, yanking Luka's hair to force their gazes to meet. "But you're not going anywhere, hero."

Luka spat a mouthful of blood into the man's face. "You'll regret this," he snarled, his voice trembling with fury and tears. "Every single one of you. I swear it."

The man's grin faltered for a split second before it twisted into rage. He slammed Luka's head into the ground with brutal force. Stars exploded his vision, but the pain was nothing compared to the hollow ache tearing through his chest.

Her sobs reached him then, soft and broken. The sound twisted the knife in his heart, carving through his soul. She was everything to him—his queen, his reason for enduring every hardship. He had promised to protect her. And now, all he could do was watch as they desecrated her dignity, shredding her spirit before his eyes.

"No," Luka whispered, his voice cracking as his tears spilled freely onto the cold floor. "No, don't you dare give up. I'll save you. I swear I'll—"

A fist collided with his jaw, silencing him. The sharp, searing pain blurred his thoughts, but it couldn't stop the torrent of guilt crashing over him.

She looked at him again, her eyes shimmering with sorrow and something else—acceptance. Her lips moved silently, forming words he couldn't hear, but he understood.

"Don't blame yourself," she mouthed.

A sob ripped from his throat, raw and jagged. "No," he choked out, his voice trembling. "No, don't say that. Don't you dare say that! This is my fault! This is—"

A glint of metal caught his eye, and his words died in his throat.

The man standing over him drew a blade, its edge gleaming with deadly intent. Luka's heart thundered in his chest, each beat pounding like a drum. He didn't look at the blade or the man wielding it. His gaze remained fixed on her.

Her lips quivered, but no sound came. Only tears fell, carrying the weight of many words unsaid.

"Forgive me, your majesty," Luka whispered, his voice barely audible over the roaring in his ears.

The blade fell, swift and merciless, slicing through his throat. Blood burst from the wound, soaking into the floor. The metallic scent of blood filled the air, sharp and suffocating.

Darkness swallowed him, cold and unrelenting. The last image burned into his mind was her tear-streaked face, and the final thought that consumed him.

He was weak. And he had failed her.

What a wretched, utterly pitiful soul he is.