The night was heavy with the scent of rain. The dense fog wrapped itself around the village like a suffocating veil, obscuring the stars and cloaking every shadow in an impenetrable blackness. Somewhere within that abyss, Vincent moved swiftly, the heels of his polished boots sinking into the mud, his breath visible in the chill air. His fine, velvet cloak caught on low-hanging branches, but he tore it free without care. There was only one thing on his mind-Rody.
He should have never fallen for him. The son of a powerful duke, with responsibilities, prestige, and a legacy to uphold, had no business sneaking out to a peasant’s cottage, risking everything for fleeting moments of love and warmth. But Vincent couldn’t help it. He was drawn to Rody like a moth to flame, and each visit made it harder to leave, harder to return to the cold, gilded world of nobility where eyes were always watching.
Tonight was no different. Despite the warnings from his father-subtle at first, then increasingly threatening-Vincent couldn’t stay away. His love for Rody burned too brightly, consuming every rational thought until nothing mattered but the feel of Rody’s hands, the comfort of his embrace, the way their bodies fit together as if made for each other.
Vincent’s heart pounded as he reached the small, weather-beaten cottage nestled at the edge of the forest. The door creaked open before he could knock, and there stood Rody, silhouetted in the dim light of a flickering candle. His broad shoulders filled the doorway, his auburn hair tousled from sleep, green eyes gleaming in the darkness.
“Vincent,” Rody whispered, his voice laced with concern. “You shouldn’t be here tonight. The Duke’s men have been in the village all day. They’re looking for something-“
“I know,” Vincent cut him off, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “But I couldn’t stay away.”
Rody’s face softened, though a flicker of worry remained in his eyes. “You’re risking too much.”
“I would risk everything for you,” Vincent murmured, reaching out to trace his fingers along Rody’s jaw. His touch was delicate, reverent, as though Rody were something fragile and precious, something to be worshipped. “I can’t- I *won’t* stop coming to you.”
Rody sighed deeply, pulling Vincent into his arms without another word. They stood like that for a long moment, the silence between them heavy with the unspoken dangers they both knew were closing in. Vincent’s head rested against Rody’s chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat, feeling the warmth of his body through the thin fabric of his tunic. In these moments, Vincent felt safe, as if the world outside no longer existed.
“Let’s not waste time talking about what might happen,” Vincent said softly, his voice muffled against Rody’s skin. “I just want to be with you.”
Rody held him tighter, and for a while, they did nothing but cling to each other in the small, quiet space of the cottage. Outside, the wind howled, battering the shutters as rain began to fall in heavy sheets. Inside, the heat between them grew, building from the slow, languid kisses Vincent pressed to Rody’s neck to the desperate pull of hands tugging at clothes, the soft gasps and murmurs as their bodies sought out the familiar rhythm they had fallen into so many times before.
It was always like this-frantic and urgent, as if each night could be their last, because, deep down, they both knew it might be. The Duke’s wrath was a storm looming on the horizon, and no matter how much Vincent tried to outrun it, he knew it was only a matter of time before it caught up with them.
Afterward, as they lay tangled together beneath a threadbare blanket, Vincent pressed his face into the crook of Rody’s neck, his breath still ragged. “I hate this,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I hate that I can’t just… be with you. That we have to hide like criminals.”
Rody’s hand moved slowly through Vincent’s hair, soothing, though his silence spoke of shared frustration. “I know, but you’re the Duke’s son, Vincent. You have responsibilities. I’m just…”
“Don’t say it,” Vincent interrupted sharply, sitting up to look Rody in the eye. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence. You’re not ‘just’ anything. You’re everything to me.”
Rody’s gaze softened, but there was sadness there too. “I wish it were that simple.”
“It is,” Vincent insisted, his fingers gripping Rody’s arm tightly, as if holding onto him could keep the world from tearing them apart. “I’ll find a way. I’ll speak to my father-“
But the words died on his lips as a loud, deliberate knock echoed through the cottage. Vincent froze, his blood turning to ice.
“Vincent,” Rody whispered, eyes wide with fear. “It’s them.”
Another knock, this time harder, more insistent. Vincent stood, pulling on his discarded clothes with shaking hands. “Stay here,” he whispered, though he knew it was pointless. They had come for him.
He barely had time to open the door before the Duke’s men pushed inside, their faces hard and unsympathetic. They grabbed Vincent by the arms, dragging him into the rain-soaked night. Rody surged forward, but one of the guards stepped between them, a hand on his sword.
“Your father will deal with you,” one of the guards said coldly, his grip on Vincent’s arm tightening as they pulled him toward the horses waiting just beyond the tree line.
Rody’s voice cut through the storm, raw with desperation. “Vincent!”
But Vincent couldn’t turn back. His heart shattered with every step as he was hauled away, leaving Rody standing in the doorway, soaked to the bone and powerless to stop what was coming.
—
The Duke’s study was oppressively silent, save for the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Vincent stood before his father, soaked and shaking, the weight of his crime hanging heavy between them. The Duke sat behind his desk, his expression one of barely contained fury.
“You’ve disgraced this family,” the Duke said, his voice dangerously calm. “Sneaking out to consort with some *peasant*. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
Vincent lifted his chin, his defiance still burning despite the fear coursing through him. “I love him.”
The Duke’s eyes darkened, his hands clenching into fists. “Love?” he spat. “You’ve brought shame to this house, and you dare speak of love?”
“I don’t care about your titles, or your legacy,” Vincent shot back, his voice breaking. “I only care about Rody.”
The Duke stood abruptly, his face twisted with rage. “You’ll never see that man again. I’ll make sure of it.”
Vincent’s heart lurched. “What are you going to do?”
“I’ll have him taken care of,” the Duke said, his voice cold and final. “One way or another.”
Vincent surged forward, but the guards at the door restrained him. “No! Please, don’t hurt him!”
The Duke sneered. “You brought this on yourself, Vincent. You’re a disgrace. And now you’ll watch as the only thing you care about is destroyed.”
Vincent screamed as the guards dragged him from the room, his pleas falling on deaf ears.
And somewhere, far away in the darkness, Rody waited.
The morning of Rody’s execution was eerily still, as though the very air itself was holding its breath for what was to come. Vincent’s heart pounded in his chest, every beat echoing the terrible truth of what was about to happen. He had been dragged from the dungeon, his wrists still sore from the manacles, and forced into his family’s finest attire. It was as if the Duke wanted to remind him, even now, of his place, his status-what he was meant to be.
But none of it mattered. The silk of his shirt, the polished boots on his feet, the gleam of the family crest on his chest-none of it meant anything without Rody.
They were preparing the execution in the town square, a public display of power that would send a message to all who dared defy the Duke’s rule. And for Vincent, it was a nightmare that he couldn’t escape from.
The Duke had ordered it: Rody was to be executed in front of the gathered townspeople, a spectacle meant to show the price of crossing the nobility, of daring to dream beyond one’s station. And worst of all, Vincent had been commanded to attend.
To watch.
As the guards dragged Vincent to the raised platform in the square, he felt the weight of a hundred eyes on him. He had grown up with the people in this village-they had respected him as the Duke’s son, but now their gazes were filled with disgust and fear. They didn’t see a nobleman anymore; they saw a traitor to his bloodline, a man who had thrown everything away for a peasant.
The crowd murmured and shifted, whispering among themselves. And then, there was Rody.
Vincent’s breath caught in his throat when he saw him. Rody was being led to the platform, his hands bound with thick rope, his clothes torn and dirty. His auburn hair was matted with blood and dirt, and his green eyes-the same eyes that had once looked at Vincent with so much love-were dull, vacant.
But despite the bruises, despite the chains, Rody stood tall. His defiance was still there, burning beneath the surface, even as they prepared to take his life.
Vincent’s knees nearly gave out as the guards shoved him to his designated spot-front row, beside his father. His father, the Duke, stood beside him like a monolith, his face cold and unyielding as stone.
“This is what happens when you allow weakness to fester,” the Duke said quietly, though his voice carried enough to make sure Vincent heard every word. “You will watch, and you will learn.”
Vincent didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His throat was tight, his entire body shaking with fear and fury.
The executioner, a tall man clad in black, stepped forward, his axe gleaming in the morning light. The sight of it made Vincent’s stomach churn violently. He couldn’t take his eyes off Rody-couldn’t stop himself from reaching out, though his body remained frozen in place. He wanted to run to him, to tear through the crowd, to fight every guard between them. But his legs wouldn’t move. He was paralyzed by the horror of it all.
Rody’s eyes finally met Vincent’s, and for a moment, time seemed to stop. There was no sound, no movement-just the two of them, locked in a silent exchange. Vincent saw everything in that gaze: the sorrow, the resignation, but also the love. Even now, in the face of death, Rody loved him.
“I’m sorry,” Rody mouthed, his lips barely moving.
Vincent shook his head, his tears finally spilling over. *No. Don’t apologize. Don’t you dare apologize. This isn’t your fault. It’s mine.*
But Rody smiled, a small, sad thing that broke Vincent’s heart all over again.
The executioner raised the axe.
“No!” Vincent screamed, lunging forward. The guards held him back, their hands gripping his arms like iron clamps. “Father, please!” His voice was raw, desperate. “You can’t do this! Please! I’ll do anything-just don’t-!”
But the Duke didn’t even flinch. His gaze was fixed on the executioner, on the proceedings, as though he were watching nothing more than a ceremonial act. As though Rody’s life meant nothing.
Vincent thrashed against the guards, sobbing openly now, his cries echoing through the square. The crowd watched in stunned silence, horrified by the sight of the Duke’s son being forced to witness the death of his lover.
The axe gleamed again as it swung through the air.
“No-!” Vincent’s scream was cut short by the sickening thud of the blade meeting flesh and bone.
Rody’s head fell to the ground, and his body slumped forward, lifeless.
The world went silent.
Vincent’s knees buckled, and he collapsed to the ground, the guards releasing him as though he were no longer a threat. He stared at the blood pooling around Rody’s body, his mind unable to process what had just happened.
Rody was gone.
The love of his life-his Rody-was dead, executed like a criminal, his blood staining the ground beneath them. Vincent couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. His world had ended in a single moment, and now there was nothing left.
The Duke placed a firm hand on Vincent’s shoulder, the weight of it unbearable.
“You will remember this,” his father said quietly, his voice devoid of any emotion. “You will remember that love is a weakness. And you will never forget what it has cost you.”
Vincent didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He was numb, his mind trapped in that single, terrible moment, replaying Rody’s death over and over again.
The Duke turned and began to walk away, leaving Vincent crumpled on the ground, broken and hollow. The crowd slowly dispersed, their whispers filling the air as they moved away from the execution site, leaving Vincent alone in the square.
He crawled forward, his hands shaking as he reached for Rody’s lifeless body. The blood soaked through his fingers, warm and sticky, but he didn’t care. He cradled Rody’s head in his lap, his tears falling freely now, mixing with the blood.
“I’m so sorry,” Vincent whispered, his voice barely audible. “I’m so sorry, Rody. I couldn’t save you.”
But the silence was his only answer.
Vincent sat there for hours, long after the square had emptied, holding Rody’s body close as the sun dipped below the horizon. The world had moved on, but Vincent was still trapped in that moment, still lost in his grief.
And in that darkness, Vincent realized something terrible. He hadn’t just lost Rody-he had lost himself. Whatever was left of him had died with Rody on that platform.
And now, there was nothing but the void.
Years had passed since the execution, years that had transformed Vincent from the scion of a noble house into a cold, brutal ruler. The once vibrant Duke’s son, who had loved and lost with such intensity, had been replaced by a man hardened by grief and rage.
Vincent’s rise to power had been swift and ruthless. The Duke’s death had been as cold and calculated as the vengeance Vincent had harbored for so long. It was an act of supreme cruelty, just as his father’s had been. Vincent had orchestrated the death of the old Duke with precision, his ambition untainted by remorse. The poison that had claimed his father’s life was a mere reflection of the poison Vincent had felt inside him for years.
But power came at a cost. Vincent’s heart, once filled with love and passion, was now a barren wasteland. His rule was marked by brutality and fear, his subjects cowed into submission by the unrelenting force of his will. He enacted laws that crushed dissent, carried out punishments that sent shivers down the spines of those who witnessed them. Vincent had become the very embodiment of the darkness he had once resisted.
In the deepest chamber of the castle, where the light of day never reached, lay a macabre testament to Vincent’s undying love for Rody. Preserved in a glass case was Rody’s head, the expression on his face frozen in a serene, if sorrowful, semblance. The eyes that once sparkled with life were now dull, but Vincent could see beyond the emptiness, to the warmth that had once been there.
Each night, Vincent would sit alone in the cold chamber, the only light coming from a solitary candle that cast long, flickering shadows on the walls. He would speak to Rody as if he were still alive, recounting the days they had spent together, the dreams they had shared.
“I’ve become the man I once despised,” he would say, his voice trembling with both rage and sorrow. “I’ve become a monster in the eyes of the people, and yet, I can’t escape the truth that I am lost without you.”
Despite his facade of cruelty, these moments of solitude were Vincent’s only sanctuary, where he allowed himself to be vulnerable. He would kneel before Rody’s preserved form, tears streaming down his face as he wept for the life they had lost. The room was filled with the echoes of his despair, each sob a reminder of the depth of his loss.
He placed his hand gently on the glass case, his fingers tracing the contours of Rody’s face. “I will never be free of this pain,” he said softly. “I will never be free of you.”
As Vincent stared at Rody’s face, his heart ached with a longing that would never be fulfilled. The castle, with its cold stone walls and its endless corridors, was now his prison. He ruled with an iron fist, his cruelty unmatched, but inside, he was still the broken man who had lost everything he held dear.
The years passed, and the once-great Duke’s son became a ruler feared and despised. Yet, in the solitude of his chamber, Vincent remained a man haunted by love and loss, his tears a silent testament to the depths of his despair. The crown he wore was a crown of thorns, and the weight of his grief was a burden he would carry until the end of his days.
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