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I look at Grant.

His eyes bulge with terror.

His hands claw uselessly at mine.

I could end him.

I want to end him.

“Vidar.”

Wren steps closer.

“Look at me.”

I do.

Her green eyes meet mine.

Not with fear.

With trust.

“Don’t take this choice away from me.”

The words strike deeper than any blade.

I remember the argument in her kitchen.

Her trembling hands.

Her confession.

I spent three years with a man who thought loving me meant owning me. I won’t do it again.

And suddenly, I understand.

If I kill Grant, I will not free her from him.

I will make his death another thing she must carry.

Another decision made by a powerful man who believed he knew what was best for her.

My grip loosens.

Grant gasps.

Wren takes another step.

“Please,” she whispers. “Let me do this my way.”

For three thousand years, I have believed mercy was weakness.

That justice required suffering.

That vengeance was the only language evil understood.

But the woman standing before me is asking for something far more difficult than revenge.