Damian lowered his hand, slowly, eyes dark with guilt—guilt that needed no confession.
"All this time... I've been fighting to carve out a name for myself. Facing a family I don't belong to, an empire that rejects me, a death that brought me back… and now...this truth?"
Her breath hitched, her voice cracking.
"I'm tired, Damian… tired of never belonging anywhere."
He moved toward her once more, silent as dusk settling over a forgotten field. No words this time—only the quiet gravity of his presence, hovering just near enough to feel the tremor of her breath, yet careful not to trespass the fragile perimeter she had drawn around herself.
Then, after a pause that seemed to stretch between heartbeats, his voice emerged—low, almost reverent:
"You will always belong to me. Even if the world forgets your name, I will not."
She didn't flinch, but her gaze drifted past him, as though searching for a version of herself that no longer existed.
"I'm not their daughter," she said, her tone brittle, laced with something newly forged—something sharp. "I'm not one of them. I'm not even me anymore."
There was a tremor in her voice, but it did not weaken her. It was the tremor of a bridge burning.
"Do you know what it means to build your life on a lie?" she continued, her words gathering force like a storm long held at bay. "To cling to fragments—scraps of memory and meaning—just to feel like you matter? And then watch it all torn away, without warning, without mercy?"
Her breath caught.
"They all lied," she said, quieter now, but no less fierce. "Those who said they loved me. Those who claimed they knew me. They were blind."
She shook her head slowly, as if dislodging the last remnants of hope.
"And me? I'm tired. I don't want anything anymore. No answers. No truths. No promises."
Damian stepped forward, not with urgency, but with the solemnity of someone approaching a sacred wound.
"But I meant it," he said gently. "When I told you—you are not alone."
She turned to him then, and in her eyes was something deeper than sorrow. Not tears, but betrayal—quiet, vast, and unforgiving.
"Maybe you didn't lie," she said, her voice like frost on glass. _"But you hid the truth. And that's worse. You let me walk through fire, while you stood beside me in silence."
She turned away, as if shielding yet another fracture within her.
"Keep your secrets. I don't want to hear more—not today, not tomorrow."
And then she walked. With stubborn, steady steps—away from him, away from the palace, away from what she once believed was her family… away from anything that could pull her back into the abyss of truth.
Her steps on the wet ground felt too heavy to be called walking.
They were an escape. From his face, from her trembling voice, from herself.
She didn't hear Damian calling her.
Maybe because he didn't.
Or maybe because her heart was roaring in silence, hearing nothing but its own echo.
The rain had stopped hours ago, but the cold remained
In the air, in the earth, in her soul.
As if the sky washed everything... except her wounds.
When she reached the camp, Rin greeted her with a hesitant look.
"Are you okay?"
He asked, not expecting an answer, but offering her the chance not to respond.
"I'm fine."
She lied, as she always did.
She entered her tent, shrugged off her cloak without feeling the cold.
Sat in silence, staring at her hands...
As if his touch was still lingering between her fingers.
She closed her eyes, and the questions poured:
"Why were you there? Why did you come back only now? Why say you know the truth... then stay silent?"
It was gnawing at her, but she was exhausted.
Exhausted from the chase, from the truth, from the lies, from everything.
She wanted to scream, but no sound came.
As if her throat itself had chosen silence.
Not far away, Damian sat alone.
Between him and the tent she had left… distance, silence, and unspoken things.
He ran his hand over the bracelet on his wrist, the one he never took off.
Whispering to himself:
"I thought I came back for her… but maybe I came too late."
That night, Ophelia slept without dreams.
In the morning, she woke with a gaze colder, more determined.
She left her tent and said with a voice that brooked no hesitation:
"I'm going to the imperial palace."
She left without explanation, leaving Rin behind.
If running from the past was impossible, maybe she could strangle it with the present.
Inside the imperial palace, Oliver was sitting, reviewing documents related to the empire when Ophelia entered without warning.
He immediately looked up, surprise clear on his face.
"Ophelia? Are you...?"
She cut him off with harsh calm:
"I want to accept your offer."
Silence fell between them like a sword.
There was no joy or surprise in his expression. He simply looked at her for a long moment, as if trying to read the true reason behind her decision.
"Why now?"
She met his gaze directly, her eyes void of sadness but filled with an old weariness.
"Because what's left of me is not enough for regret."
He took a step closer, his features tightening slightly:
"You're not doing this because you want to, but because you're running away."
She raised an eyebrow lightly:
"And where else can I run? If running makes me stand firmly before everyone, then let me run."
Oliver hesitated, then spoke in a low voice:
"Is there still a place for him in your heart?"
Her gaze froze for a moment, then she whispered:
"There are places in the heart that never close; we just pretend they were never open."
A week passed in quiet preparation. The palace staff moved with precision, every detail of the engagement celebration meticulously planned — yet to Ophelia, it all felt like a dream unfolding without her consent.
The throne hall buzzed with faces, the echoes of guards' footsteps filled the corridors, and candlelight danced upon the ornate walls.
Ophelia stood amid it all, dressed in a luxurious gown she barely felt, her eyes searching for an escape from the overwhelming crowd.
Suddenly, the hall's door slammed open, and Damian entered with steady steps, his face a mix of anger and deep pain.
Ophelia's eyes shimmered with restrained tears, the air thickening around her. Damian stood before her, his voice calm but laced with bitterness:
"Why did you choose Oliver?"
She sighed deeply, her voice weary:
"Because he was the only honest person with me from the start."
Damian smiled bitterly, as if his words dripped venom:
"Oliver? Honest? He used you to gain the throne, and now he wants you as a crown upon his head."
He stepped closer, his eyes trembling:
"I'm the one who faded away to bring you back to life, the one who gave up his existence for you… and you…"
Ophelia cut him off, her voice rising for the first time:
"And me? What about me?! Do you think I'm okay? That I haven't broken a hundred times?! Everyone I loved betrayed me, disappeared… even you!"
She gasped, then continued, her voice breaking:
"I'm tired, Damian… tired of searching for a place where I don't belong. Oliver didn't ask for anything… he was just there when no one else was."
Damian fell silent, his voice seemingly strangled. Then he spoke softly, deadly serious:
"And is presence enough? Don't you realize all the disappointments, all you suffered, are because you never knew the true meaning of love?… And I was ready to fight the whole world for you."
Ophelia took a step back. Now her tears were no longer hidden.
"Maybe… I don't want anyone fighting for me anymore."
Damian was silent for a moment, then gave a faint, wounded smile, and said:
"When the time to fall comes, no one will save you from yourself—no crown, no palace, no Oliver…"
Silence filled the room.
Damian vanished into the palace shadows, leaving Ophelia standing alone, her eyes shedding silent tears—too proud to show the weakness of open crying.