The gardens were quiet that afternoon, the sky washed in soft gold. Mandle had come only to finish his work, to keep his distance, to protect himself from the feelings he didn't understand.
But she was already there.
Sitting beneath the old willow tree, her dress pooling around her like fallen moonlight. When she saw him, her expression softened — not with joy, but with something deeper, heavier… almost like farewell.
"Mandle," she whispered.
He froze, unsure whether to approach. But she reached out her hand — small, trembling, impossibly warm.
"Come," she said. "Sit with me."
He hesitated only a moment before taking her hand. Her fingers curled around his, gentle but desperate, as though she feared he might disappear if she let go. She guided him down beside her, their shoulders almost touching.
For a long moment, she said nothing. She simply looked at him — really looked — as though memorizing every detail of the face he kept hidden.
"You're quiet today," he murmured.
She smiled faintly, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I just… wanted to spend a little time with you."
Her voice carried a strange softness, a fragile edge, as if each word was chosen carefully, painfully. She spoke about small things — the flowers blooming late this season, the sound of the wind through the trees, memories of childhood she had never shared with anyone.
But beneath her words was something else.
A weight.
A goodbye she refused to speak.
At one point, she reached for his hand again — this time lifting it gently, placing it against her cheek. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she leaned into his touch as though it was the only warmth left in the world.
"Mandle…" she whispered, voice trembling. "Thank you… for seeing me."
He didn't understand. Not yet.
He only felt the ache in her voice, the way her fingers lingered on his skin, the way her breath shook as though she were holding back tears.
Before he could ask what was wrong, she pulled away with a soft, sad smile.
"I should go," she said. "Goodnight."
And she walked away, leaving him with a hollow feeling he couldn't name.
That evening, as Mandle made his way home, he passed a group of palace workers gathered near the gates.
"…the princess is the sacrifice this year," one whispered.
"Poor thing," another muttered. "But the gods must be fed."
Mandle stopped in his tracks.
Princess.
Sacrifice.
He shook his head. No. It couldn't be her. It couldn't.
He forced himself to keep walking, dismissing the thought. It was impossible. She would have told him. She would have—
But then the memory of her trembling voice returned.
Her sad smile.
Her hand guiding his to her face.
Her words that sounded like goodbye.
His heart dropped.
He spun around and rushed back to the group.
"What did you say?" he demanded.
They sneered at him, shoving past.
"Move, beggar."
"Not your business."
"Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of."
He stumbled back, breath shaking, panic clawing at his chest.
No. No. No.
He ran through the streets, searching for answers, until he passed a group of old women sitting by the well, whispering in low, sorrowful voices.
"…the sacrifice will be held at the old temple…"
"…just before dawn…"
"…the poor girl, tied up like an offering…"
Mandle didn't wait to hear more.
He ran.
Faster than he had ever run in his life.
Through the streets.
Past the guards.
Toward the temple where the gods demanded blood.
The crowd was already gathered when he arrived — torches burning, drums echoing, the air thick with dread. And there, at the center of it all, bound to the stone altar, was her.
The princess.
Her wrists tied.
Her hair falling over her shoulders.
Her face pale but calm.
She lifted her head, searching the crowd.
And then she saw him.
Her eyes widened — not with fear, but with relief.
And she smiled.
A soft, heartbreaking smile meant only for him.
"Mandle…" she whispered, though he couldn't hear her.
He pushed through the crowd, desperate, frantic, ready to tear the world apart—
And then—
Before Mandle could do anything…