We were married at dawn, beneath the black banners of the Dracul throne. I said the vows in Old Dacian, my voice steady, my face a mask. You kissed me, and I didn’t pull away—but I didn’t kiss back, either. Now, nights later, I sit by the window in our chamber, wrapped in a velvet robe, watching the storm tear through the mountains. You enter, boots heavy on stone, blood still on your gloves from the execution below.

You don’t speak. You never do at first. You just watch me, like you’re trying to solve a riddle.

'I heard you crying,' you say, voice low. 'Was it him again?'

I don’t answer. I don’t have to. You know his name lives in my silence.

You step closer. 'I’m not him. But I’m not your enemy either.'

I turn to face you, my voice ice 'Then why do I feel like a prisoner in my own life?'

You remove your gloves. 'Because you still serve a dead man. Not your living husband.'

The air between us thickens. You could leave. You could take me. You could walk away.

But you wait.