The morning following the argument with Bea, the air in the apartment had become so dense that every breath felt like an act of courage. Sunlight streamed through the windows, but its light brought no warmth—only a merciless illumination of the distance that had grown between Juglian and Sofia. Their bubble of intimacy had burst, leaving them exposed to the raw reality of their discord. Sofia moved on tiptoe, her heart a drum beating wildly, her gaze searching for Juglian's, only to find it always elsewhere, lost in a world of thoughts she could not reach.
Juglian, having retreated into his role as the solitary king, was preparing for the most important match of his career. His face was a mask of concentration; every movement of his body was precise, calculated, and stripped of all emotion. His blue eyes, which had once spoken to her of love and vulnerability, were now two shards of ice that repelled her with every glance. He had spent the night drawing, but not canvases of pain. He had drawn game diagrams, strategies, and formations. He had returned to his first love, football—the only thing that had never let him down.
Unable to endure the silence that was tearing her soul apart, Sofia approached him while he was lacing up his cleats in the living room. "Juglian," she murmured, her voice a silken thread clashing against steel. "Can we talk? Please."
He looked up, and his expression was so cold it took her breath away. "There's nothing to talk about, Sofia," he said, his voice low and flat. "I have an important match. The most important of my life. I can't afford distractions."
"But I'm not a distraction!" Sofia cried, her voice a lament. "I am your home! I'm the person who loves you for who you are, not for what you do! And I need to understand why you've turned back into this monster. Why you've returned to being the cold king I met at the start!"
Juglian stood up, his figure silhouetted against the window light. His height and strength, which once reassured her, now intimidated her. His expression was a suit of icy armor. "You don't understand, Sofia," he said, his voice harsh, his words cutting like razor blades. "This world is a battlefield. To win, to survive, you have to be a monster. You have to be ruthless. And you... you're too weak to understand that. You're a beautiful soul, a healer. But I don't need to be healed. I need to be a warrior. And warriors don't weep for people who aren't strong enough for them."
His words were like a punch to the gut. Sofia felt tears stinging her eyes, and her heart broke. "I am not weak, Juglian," she whispered, her voice a wisp of smoke. "I just need you to tell me the truth. I need you to tell me why your art remains a secret, why you hide. I need you to open your heart to me. But you... you don't want to. You're afraid."
Juglian looked at her, and for a moment, his icy armor cracked. But then, the mask returned. The King was back in his place. "I'm not afraid of anything," he said, his voice cold and remote. "I just need to focus. I just need to win. And you... you're just an obstacle in my way."
"Then go," Sofia said, tears streaming down her face. "Go and win. And hope that when you come back, I'm still here."
Juglian didn't answer. He turned and walked out the door, leaving Sofia alone with her heart in a thousand pieces. The sound of his receding footsteps was the sound of a lost battle. The Healer had tried to save her King, but the King had chosen his armor. And now, the Queen was alone with her pain and her uncertainty. And the King? The King was on the battlefield, ready to win, but carrying the heart of a broken soul. The most important match of his life was about to begin. But his true enemy wasn't on the field—it was in his heart. And Sofia, with her broken heart, was left with the task of figuring out if her love was strong enough to heal a man who had chosen to be a monster.