Emilio's breath caught as the illusion cracked. Ice clawed at his lungs as reality reasserted itself — cold, brutal, and sharp. The blood on his hands was warm in contrast. Too warm.
His sword was still in his grip. And Unnur — real or not — was impaled on it.
She staggered backward, her hand pressed to her chest, dark red spilling through her fingers and onto the snow.
"No…" he whispered, the fire of battle replaced by something hollow. "No, no, no…"
Her face twisted with pain — not just from the wound, but from him. He had seen it before, in others. Not enemies. Not beasts.
Only in those he loved.
"You… chose…" she breathed again, her voice softer now. The warmth in her eyes faded like the last light of dusk, replaced by something resigned. "You always do."
He reached for her, his fingers trembling. "Unnur — I didn't — this isn't…"
He couldn't finish. The words didn't come. The weight of his guilt pressed down like the snow above a tomb.
