That night, a letter arrived.
A courier, mud-streaked and trembling, shoved a folded paper into my hand before stumbling away. My heart pounded as Elias's memories surged, knowing before I even opened it what it might say.
It was short.
Brutal.
Final.
His brother. Dead in combat. His unit was wiped out. No survivors.
Elias's chest heaved. My chest. His grief poured through me like acid, searing every nerve. The guilt deepened, sharper than any bullet. He hadn't just lost his brother—he blamed himself for not being there, for not saving him.
I felt the decision harden inside him like iron.
The rope. The gun. The end.
And for the first time, I realized something terrifying.
He didn't fear death.
He wanted it.