Matthias was ready to roar back, his own indignation boiling just beneath the surface. But the moment his gaze locked onto hers, his anger didn't just break—it evaporated. The sight of her tears, raw and shattering, left him utterly defenseless.
"Olivia!" he gasped, his voice frantic with worry. "What is it? Did I hurt you? Did you hurt your hand when you struck me? Why are you crying like this? Tell me, does something else ache?"
His words of comfort were like salt in a wound. Ever since the mention of rebellion and execution, the ghosts of her previous life—the silver gleam of the blade, the sound of the crowd, the finality of his death—had been playing on a loop behind her eyelids.
She collapsed against him, resting her forehead on his shoulder. Her body shook with violent, jagged sobs that she could no longer suppress.
"Please... please, Matthias," she choked out between gasps for air. "Do not say that word again. It hurts... it hurts more than you know. Just... never again."
