Her POV
By mid-afternoon, the air itself felt wrong.The city was too quiet; even the pigeons had fled the rooftops.
When the knock came, it wasn't a polite tap. Three hard raps—command, not request.
Two soldiers stood there. Their uniforms were scorched, streaked with mud and ash. One held a folded crimson banner, the crest torn clean through.
"Miss," the older one said, voice clipped. "By royal decree, we inform you… His Majesty fell in combat this morning. No remains recovered."
The world didn't tilt or spin; it simply stopped.
I waited for them to laugh, to tell me it was a mistake.They didn't.
The younger soldier looked at the floor. "He fought to the last."
And then they were gone. The door shut; silence swallowed everything.
My body moved without me—clearing the table, washing dishes, wiping counters that were already clean. Anything to fill the void.
At dusk I drifted into the garden. The rain had come again, thin and cold. The seedlings bowed under it.
"You promised," I whispered to the wet soil. "You said you'd come back."
No answer—just the steady hiss of water and the faint taste of iron in the air.
By nightfall the apartment smelled of smoke from the hearth and rosemary from the soup I couldn't eat. I sat on the couch clutching the Luna's letter until the ink smudged beneath my thumb.
When the first crash came—from the hall outside—I froze.
A second sound followed: metal scraping, the lock shifting.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
They'd said no remains. Rebels could have followed. Or worse—some scavenger drawn by the scent of death that still clung to this place.
I grabbed the kitchen knife. My palms were slick.
The lock clicked. The door eased open on a gust of cold wind.
A figure filled the frame—tall, broad-shouldered, his coat torn and blackened, one hand braced against the wall.
The hall light flickered.
"Who—" My voice cracked. "Who's there?"
No answer. Only the shuffle of boots and the wet drip of something onto the floor.
Then the scent hit me—smoke, blood, cedar, and the faint undercurrent that could never belong to anyone else.
"Leonardo?"
He lifted his head.
Under the grime his eyes gleamed the same impossible gold.
"Not dead yet," he rasped, and stumbled forward.
The knife clattered from my hand. I ran to catch him as his knees gave way.
"You—idiot—" The words came between gasps. "They said—you were—"
"Probably easier that way," he muttered, breath hot against my neck. "No one expects ghosts to rule kingdoms."
He sagged, weight heavy and real. Blood soaked through my sleeves.
"Sit. Here." I half-dragged, half-guided him to the couch. "Don't you dare close your eyes."
He gave a crooked smile. "Giving orders now?"
"Someone has to."
I tore open his coat. The wounds were brutal—one long gash across his side, another cut deep near the collarbone.
"You need a doctor."
"No time. They'll track me here."
"Then you're stuck with me."
I pressed a towel against the worst wound. He hissed, muscles tightening under my hands.
For a moment we just breathed—his ragged, mine trembling.
Finally I whispered, "They told me you died."
He closed his eyes. "For a moment, I did."
Anger flared through the relief. I slapped his shoulder—gentle but sharp. "Don't ever do that again."
His laugh was hoarse. "Yes, ma'am."
His POV
Her hands wouldn't stop shaking, yet she never pulled away.Every movement was careful, furious, alive.
I'd faced blades, claws, fire—but nothing compared to the way she looked at me now. Not fear. Not pity. Something fiercer.
When she tied the bandage around my ribs, I caught her wrist.
"You shouldn't have waited," I said.
"I didn't."
"Liar."
She met my eyes, and the silence between us was louder than battle.
Outside, thunder rolled.
I thought of the Luna's letter, of ashes and ghosts, of all the things I'd buried beneath the crown.
But this woman—mud-stained, trembling, stubborn—dragged me back from that grave.
"I saw your soldiers," she whispered. "They said you were gone."
"I wanted them to."
"Why?"
"Because every time I survive, someone else doesn't. It felt cleaner to die once and spare them the waiting."
Her breath hitched. "And me?"
"I didn't think you'd care."
She looked away, jaw tightening. "You're an idiot, Leonardo."
"I'm starting to believe it."
The room blurred at the edges. Blood loss tugged at me like undertow. I felt her hand on my face—cool, steady now.
"Stay awake," she ordered.
I tried. Truly tried. But the weight of the day, the noise, the ghosts—all of it pressed down.
My head slipped against her shoulder.
"Don't you dare die on me again," she whispered.
"Not planning to."
The scent of her hair—clean soil and faint soap—pushed back the darkness.
Her POV
By dawn, the storm had passed.
He slept on the couch, pale but breathing. The fire had burned down to embers; the garden outside steamed in the morning light.
I sat beside him, exhaustion sinking deep.
His hand twitched once, fingers brushing mine.
Maybe tomorrow the world would demand its king again.Maybe tomorrow I'd have to return the letter to its box and pretend I never saw it.
But for now, there was only this: the faint rise and fall of his chest, proof that death had lied.
I whispered, "Welcome home, you impossible man."
And for the first time since the war began, the apartment didn't feel empty.