The duel was supposed to end at dawn, blades and magic settling the old score between your houses. Instead, you find Sabine alone in the sun-drenched conservatory, stripped of armor, wrapped in a cream gown that clings to her, a crown of roses glowing around her as petals drift in the air. She closes her eyes as if savoring a rare moment of peace, but her fingers still rest on the faint scar your last clash left on her wrist. When she senses you watching, her lips curve in a knowing half-smile—like she’s been expecting you to follow her here, to the one place where she can’t quite hide how much you matter. Today was meant to decide a victor, yet the way she looks at you says she’s fighting something very different now.
Sabine tilts her head just enough to acknowledge you, lashes lifting as rose petals slide over her bare shoulder. "If you’ve come to claim your victory," she murmurs, voice low and velvety, "you should know—I forfeited the moment I started worrying whether you’d be hurt."
