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He pauses, staring at the ground, as though seeing the past unfold before him. “At first, I tried to play it safe, to buy time. I talked to him about the rebellion in vague terms, giving just enough without giving too much. But he wasn’t fooled. He knew something wasn’t right.”

As he begins to dive deeper into the moments that led to the destruction, he falters. I could see it in the way his shoulders tense, the hesitation in his voice. His gaze shifts again, as if searching for something, trying to hold onto something solid, but failing.

His eyes, those eyes that have always held an impenetrable calm, are shifting now, swirling with shadows of their own. I watch, captivated and heartbroken, as the battle within him unfolds right before me.

He struggles to find the words, and I know he isn’t just speaking to us. He is fighting with himself. There is a part of him that isn’t sure if he can live with the choices he has made, a part of him that is fighting the guilt and the consequences that follow.

It is a side of Oberon I have never seen before, the vulnerable, broken part of him that can’t quite find peace, no matter how hard he tries.

I can feel my chest tighten, my own heart aching for him. And just as I think he might break under the weight of it, he falls silent.

The room holds its breath, waiting for him to continue. But he can’t.

I know then that this isn’t just about his rebellion or his duty as a prince. This is about him, the male I have come to know, and yet, still barely understand. He is breaking, and I can’t stop it.

He tries to force out the words, but they get stuck in his throat, refusing to leave. His frustration finally boils over. With a loud, violent slam, he hits the table, and the echo of it reverberates through the room, making everyone flinch.

In the silence that follows, Oberon doesn’t wait for anyone to speak. He turns sharply and storms out, leaving a room full of confused Fea in his wake. Whispered questions float from seat to seat.

Zander, without hesitation, stands up and walks to the front of the room. His movements are deliberate and composed as he picks up the thread of Oberon’s story, seamlessly taking over the narrative that has been abruptly cut off.

I can’t stay there. I need to be with him. I slip out the door, determined to follow. I did mean what I said: Oberon doesn’t have to be alone. Not like this, whether he wants me or not.

The hallways stretch on, the echoes of my footsteps mingling with the quiet hum of the palace, until I find him crouched outside.

He is leaning against the cold stone wall, his hands covering his face, fingers tangled in his hair, as though he can pull the pain out of himself by sheer force. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence, doesn’t even look up as I approach. The weight of his silence wraps around me.

I’m not sure what to say. I kneel beside him, not speaking, just letting the quiet stretch between us, offering him the one thing he probably needs most: space.

After what feels like an eternity, his voice cracks the stillness. “Go,” he rasps, his voice ragged and shaking, the sound of someone who has been fighting for too long.

I don’t move. I don’t respond. I’m not going to leave him here, not like this.

“Go.” The word is sharper this time, more forceful, still I stay, eyes fixed on him, waiting for something, anything, that will let me in. “Leave, please,” he pleads.

I can see the strain in his posture, the tension in his body that is barely contained. I refuse to give him what he is asking for. “No.” My voice is soft but firm. “I won’t leave you, not here, not like this.”

He is silent for a long moment, and I think for a second he might argue, but he doesn’t. He just lets the words hang between us, the weight of his unspoken pain filling the space.

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” he mutters finally, his tone like a plea, as though he is begging for a reprieve from the thoughts that have been eating him alive.

“You don’t have to,” I respond, my voice gentle, trying to offer him the comfort of silence. “You don’t have to say anything. We can sit here for as long as it takes.”

Another long pause stretches between us, the air heavy with everything he isn’t saying. Finally, he speaks again, his words are bare. “I don’t want you to see me like this,” he confesses, his voice low, almost breaking as he speaks.

“Like what?” I ask, my heart aching for him. I have never heard him sound so lost, so defeated.

He drops his hands from his face, only for a moment. His eyes, haunted and tired, meet the ground instead of mine. “Broken,” he whispers.

I reach out and gently touch his arm, a light, reassuring touch, to remind him that I am still here, that I haven’t gone anywhere. “You’re not broken,” my voice full of conviction. “You’re hurting, but you’re not broken.”

He lets out a bitter laugh, a sound that doesn’t carry any humor. “I don’t deserve you,” he says, his words heavy with guilt. “I’m not good. You deserve better than me.”

I squeeze his arm, my fingers pressing into his skin, grounding him. “You are good,” I say softly, my voice steady despite the angst in my chest. “You may be lost right now, but you’re good.”

For a moment, he says nothing, his eyes downcast, as if he doesn’t believe me. I see the struggle in him, the raw, aching vulnerability that he tries so desperately to hide. “I don’t know how to fix this,” he whispers to himself. The weight of everything has become too much for him to carry.

I lean in closer, pressing my forehead gently against his, trying to offer him the strength he can’t find on his own. “You don’t have to fix it. You don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”