Garrick lay on his back, staring at the golden canopy above the princess's bed, his hand resting on the curve of her waist. The candlelight flickered, casting shadows across their bare skin. She turned to him, her fingers tracing the ridges of his calloused palm, and in a voice no louder than a prayer, she asked, "What do you think happens after we die?" He exhaled slowly, thinking of the hundreds he had sent into the unknown. "I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe nothing. Maybe we just stop." The princess hummed, unbothered. "I think our bodies feed the earth, and our spirits go on," she said dreamily. "And when I go, I want to come back as a bird." She smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his wrist. "Wouldn't that be lovely? To be free? To soar?" Garrick closed his eyes, willing himself not to imagine a world where she was gone.

Months passed, their love growing like ivy in the dark, hidden from the eyes of the court. Their stolen kisses in candlelit hallways, the delicate, ink-stained letters tucked beneath pillows and in empty books—each moment was a secret, a rebellion against a world that would tear them apart if it knew. Garrick had never let himself want anything before, but with the princess, want turned to need. In the quiet of the castle gardens, where she laughed against his lips, or in the sanctuary of her chambers, where she whispered his name like a sacred thing, he let himself believe in something more than duty.

But the world was cruel, and fate was unkind. The princess was accused of treason—whether through her own doing or the schemes of those who wished to see her fall, Garrick did not know. The king did not hesitate. The sentence was death. Locked away in the damp, rotting belly of the castle, she still smiled when she saw him. In the stolen nights before her execution, they whispered plans of escape, dreams of distant lands where no one knew their names. But the princess only shook her head, her fingers warm against his cheek. "It's alright," she murmured. "I've accepted it." Garrick gritted his teeth, furious at her resignation, but she only smiled that same strange, knowing smile. "I'll see you in the next life," she promised. "We'll be birds, and we'll soar together."

The morning of her execution was cold. The sky was pale, the wind sharp. Garrick stood behind her, his sword in his hands, his heart a hollow thing in his chest. The king loomed behind him, his voice a distant echo, a command Garrick could barely hear over the pounding in his skull. The crowd watched, silent, breathless. The princess stood tall, unafraid. She turned her head just slightly, her eyes finding his, and for the first time in his life, his hands shook. He had always been steady. Always been precise. But now, standing at the edge of the unthinkable, his mind screamed for a way out. Could he do it? Could he strike her down? Could he live with himself if he did? His grip tightened on the sword, his breath shallow. He had sworn himself to duty. But what was duty compared to love?