Morgana exhaled slowly, her shoulders finally loosening a little of the accumulated tension. She turned her face away from him, as if she needed a second of distance before saying anything.

But Damon waited.

He always waited.

And that irritated her—and comforted her—in equal measure.

She walked to the desk near the window, resting both hands on the cold wooden surface. The moon outlined her silhouette, highlighting the rigid contour of her shoulders and the trembling curve of her breath.

"There are no thorns…" she began, but her voice came out weak. She swallowed hard, starting again. "Actually, there are. There are several. And all of them are stuck too deep."

Damon took a step closer, but didn't touch her.

He always seemed to know exactly how far he could go.

Morgana closed her eyes for a moment.

"My father decided I must marry," she finally said, each word coming out like something burning as it crossed her throat.

Damon blinked slowly, the smile at the corner of his lips fading.

"And the groom is…" she grimaced bitterly, "…a complete jerk. Arrogant. Unbearable. Someone who believes I'm an ornament. An accessory. A possession."

Damon's jaw clenched, but he maintained his composure.

Morgana continued:

"He thinks he can mold me. That he can… fix me." She laughed, but it was an empty laugh. "Fix me. As if I were broken. As if I were a problem for him to adjust."

Damon let out a short, incredulous laugh, but his gaze was dark.

"He thinks he has the right to decide everything for me. Even the sword I can or cannot wield." Her voice trembled, but not with fear. It was anger. Deep, sharp, ready to kill. "He said he's going to 'talk to my father' to get me out of the Academy."

Damon raised his head slowly.

"He said what?"

"That's right." Morgana gripped the edge of the table even tighter. "That he's going to destroy everything I've built. Everything I've fought to be. My dream, Damon. My whole dream… he thinks it's just a 'childish hobby'."

For a second, the silence became so heavy that the wind seemed to stop blowing.

Damon took a step to her side, standing close, but still not touching her.

"Morgana…"

She took a deep breath, her voice faltering as she finally spoke:

"And the worst part… is that I can't do anything." Her fist slammed against the table, but weakly. It was pure frustration. "I can't run away. I can't yell at my father. I can't challenge my fiancé in front of everyone. I can't cut his head off," she murmured, almost disappointed. "Even if I wanted to." Damon raised an eyebrow.

"You… wanted to cut his head off?"

"On several occasions." Morgana crossed her arms, finally looking at him. "Quite willingly, in fact."

Damon stifled a laugh, but his expression was almost proud.

"But you're not going to do anything about it?" he asked, teasing "slightly."

She gave a tired sigh.

"What can I do?" she murmured. "My father has already signed the preliminary papers. The engagement is… official." She swallowed hard. "And I'm stuck here, Damon. Stuck in the castle, stuck in this room, stuck in this ridiculous fate someone chose for me."

Damon tilted his head slowly.

"So you really think there's nothing you can do?"

"I'm sure of it," she replied bitterly. "I have no choice."

He took another step closer.

Now, he was within her reach.

Morgana realized too late that her heart had raced, "but not with anger this time."

Damon looked at her as if studying every detail, every line of tension, every mark of exhaustion.

His crooked smile appeared, dangerous, provocative… and, at the same time, gentle in a way he rarely let show.

"Funny," he murmured. "Because you don't seem like the type of person who simply accepts having no choice."

She looked away, irritated. Something in her always reacted badly when someone looked at her so deeply.

"Damon, I'm not kidding. What if you came just to make fun of me?"

"I came because you disappeared." He cut her off, his voice low, firm. "I came because you were strangely quiet. Because Harven was acting strangely. Because something didn't add up." He shrugged. "And because I'm not blind. You're… unwell. Very unwell."

Morgana pressed her lips together, holding her breath for a moment.

He continued:

"And the funniest thing… is that the last person who would accept an imposed fate… is precisely you."

She bit her lower lip, without realizing it.

"So yes," Damon finished, his smile slowly returning. "Maybe you can't cut off your fiancé's head. Maybe you can't yell at your father. Maybe you can't blow up half the castle…"

"I swear I considered it," she whispered.

"I know," he said, almost laughing. "But that doesn't mean you don't have options."

She looked up, confused.

Damon leaned in a little closer, until the distance between them was dangerously small "but not intimate enough for her to back away."

"Morgana," he said, in that low voice that pierced any defense, "…there's no prison you can't break. And if you can't do it alone…"

He smiled.

"I can… let's say… create a distraction."

She blinked, surprised.

"A distraction?"

"Something elegant," he said. "Or something chaotic. You choose."

Morgana gave a short, nervous laugh.

But it was her first real laugh all night.

Damon watched her, satisfied.

"You're not alone," he concluded. "Unless you want to be. But honestly? That doesn't seem to be the case today."

She opened her mouth to answer…

But she couldn't.

She just stared at him, "at that damned smile, at those eyes that truly saw her, that saw her anger, her frustration, her fear, her will to fight, her will to live," and something inside her tightened tightly.

Morgana took a deep breath.

Finally, she spoke:

"Damon… I don't know what to do."

He smiled.

Slowly.

Almost tenderly.

"Then let me show you some options."

Morgana gripped the sheets tighter, averting her gaze from him as if the darkness itself were easier to face than Damon.

Her chest still rose and fell with short breaths, heavy with frustration, anger… and now, confusion.

"I… I'm not very excited about this," she murmured, her voice low, tired, lacking its usual sharp edge. "I just want to be alone, Damon. That's all." She was sincere.

More so than she would have liked.

For a moment, his expression softened. The teasing smile faded for a few seconds—just seconds—giving way to a silent understanding, too profound for someone who used to mock even his own fate.

But then the smile returned, lighter this time, almost… tranquil.

"It's alright," he murmured, as if granting her an unasked favor. "If you want to be alone, I won't force you."

Morgana blinked, surprised by the unexpected sincerity.

Damon turned, walking to the windowsill with silent, almost feline steps. The moon outlined every detail of his posture—relaxed, yet sharp, as if he were always ready to act.

He placed one foot on the edge and gave her the most brazen smile of the night.

"But since you're not going to do anything…" He tilted his head. "I'll go solve the problem for you."

Morgana's eyes widened.

"Wait, what—?"

"That's exactly what you heard," he replied, looking down at the garden below, gauging its height. "I get worried when someone steps on my favorite rival. I don't like it when people mess with things I… appreciate."

Her heart skipped a beat.

He said it with the utmost naturalness. Simple, direct. As if "appreciating" Morgana were as obvious as breathing.

She opened her mouth to respond—to protest, to tell him to stop, to say she didn't need his help—but Damon had already leaned forward, ready to leap.

His cloak billowed slightly in the wind.

The moonlight made the outline of his hair shine like vibrant silver.

He seemed on the verge of disappearing from her life as unexpectedly as he had appeared.

Morgana felt something tighten inside her.

She couldn't explain it.

She didn't want to understand.

But her hands moved before any clear thought could emerge. "Wait!"

It was a sad whisper, an involuntary, almost fragile plea—something she would never allow anyone else to hear.

But Damon heard it.

He stopped the exact instant his leg was already in the air.

He froze there, suspended between the leap and the stillness.

He turned his face slowly, as if savoring that moment.

That single moment when Morgana Arven—the girl who faced duels without blinking—asked him not to go.

His smile softened, almost intimate.

"…so you don't want to be so alone."

A blush spread across her face, hot as fire piercing her chest.

"Shut up. I just—"

He raised a hand, interrupting with a slight gesture.

"I'm not leaving. But I'm also not going to stand here watching you suffer because of an arrogant idiot with gel in his hair."

Even though she was annoyed, even though she was confused, a soft laugh threatened to escape her.

He continued:

"So… what do you want me to do, Morgana?"

The moon illuminated them both.

The wind entered through the window.

And, for the first time in her life, Morgana didn't have a ready answer.

Because Damon wasn't offering a solution.

He was offering a choice.

Something no one else had given her.

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