Emma was gone.

And with her—everything.

His breath. His anchor. The fragile candle flame he'd cupped in bloodied hands for over a decade, shielding her from wind, from wolves, from the court's venomous whispers. From himself, most of all.

She was gone now.

Sir Clark Donovan Vexley, High Knight of Falnow, stood at the center of her empty chambers like a man struck blind. The moonlight through the stained glass painted him in cold sapphire and gold. A knight without a vow. A guardian without a charge. A man who had loved too much—and failed.

His brown hair was a mess. His armor half-on, half-undone, like he couldn't decide whether to protect or destroy. The thin gold chain beneath his breastplate rose and fell against his throat with his erratic breath.

And when the door creaked open behind him, he turned.

It was his oldest friend. His only friend. The one name he remembered when he forgot his own. The friend who had held him after his first kill, who had kissed him once—only once—after a battle that nearly cost them both their lives. The friend who had whispered his name like it meant something. Who had known. Who had always known what Emma meant. And what he meant.

Their eyes met across the ruins of the princess's room—silver against shame—and everything fell apart.

And then Clark's voice broke, jagged and raw.

"HOW—HOW COULD YOU?"

It wasn't the sword he reached for—it was the ache. The devastation in his throat as he crossed the floor like a storm loosed from heaven.

"After everything," he continued. "After all I did for you. For her. For us—"

He staggered forward, his gauntlet slipping from his wrist, forgotten.

"I burned for her. I bled. I became this thing—this monster—just to keep her alive."

But he wasn't speaking about Emma anymore. Not really. Not fully.

"But I loved you," he whispered, lower now. Like a confession. Like a curse.

"I loved you more."

His fingers twitched at his side—not for his weapon, but for his friend. Always for him. The friend who had seen him before the armor, before the madness. Who had touched his back in training and said, "I've got you." Who had kissed his mouth under the bloody stars and said, "Don't die yet. I'm not done with you."

And now, he was the one who had betrayed him.

"You let her go," Clark breathed. "You might not have opened the gate. You might not have given her the horse. But you lied to my face."

The friend stepped back a pace, but Clark was already moving—closing the space like a shadow drawn to warmth, like a man chasing his last breath.

"I remember what you sound like when you moan," Clark said, voice stripped to the bone. "I remember how you taste after wine. I remember the shape your body makes when I'm inside you, and still—still—you chose her."

The friend faltered, and Clark felt it—the hesitation cracking like thunder across his ribs.

It broke him.

He didn't draw steel. He didn't rage.

He simply leaned forward, forehead pressing to his friend's throat, trembling as if from cold—but it was something hotter than fire, deeper than grief.

"I should hate you," he whispered. "I should hang you in the stables and let the dogs have what's left. I should let the rot take you like it took me the day you freed the 'princess' and didn't call me 'love.'"