The sheriff's report came as no surprise.

Sebastian had completely unraveled upon learning his threatening letter had earned him not my intervention but an additional charge of "threatening a protected person."


He'd spent days howling like a feral dog, slamming his head against the cell walls as if such violence could resurrect the future he'd destroyed through his own actions.

I felt no pity—only the calm certainty that matters had reached their proper conclusion. Still, for the sake of what we once shared, I visited him in prison one final time.

The cell reeked of mildew and despair. He huddled in a corner, filthy and unkempt, his eyes sunken into dark hollows. Those hands that once wielded brushes with such delicacy now bore only blackened nails and cracked skin. Nothing remained of the boy who painted in golden light—just a husk emptied by greed.


When he saw me, a desperate spark ignited in his dull eyes. He scrambled to the bars, his voice a ragged scrape: "Arya! You came! I knew you wouldn't abandon me!"

I regarded him in silence.


"I was wrong! Isabella tricked me! I only wanted... wanted to secure our future!" he babbled incoherently.

I finally spoke: "Sebastian, we have no future."

He froze, stricken.

"When you're released," I continued, each word measured and precise, "sell the gifts I gave you—the art supplies, the tie pin, those shirts. I never mentioned their value, but they should bring enough for you to begin again somewhere."

This wasn't mercy but final severance. What I had once given in love would now serve as his only lifeline.

Color drained from his face as the last spark in his eyes died. He understood this was all I could offer—all I was willing to offer. Between us, only this small measure of "value" remained to be liquidated.

"No..." he mumbled, sliding down the cold bars to the floor. Regret and despair engulfed him like a rising tide. He crumpled, burying his face in his hands, releasing choked, agonized sobs.

Too late. I turned and walked away without a backward glance. His weeping faded behind me—the final requiem for what we had once been.

My relationship with Reynard, having weathered its storms, emerged stronger. Our engagement received unanimous approval from both families' elders. Father even expressed rare satisfaction in his correspondence. Though the Blackwoods were frontier nobility, they upheld impeccable family values, and Reynard himself was beyond reproach.

One crystalline afternoon, Reynard and I strolled beside the academy lake. Watching blue sky and white clouds mirrored on the still water, I sighed: "Life truly follows no predictable course."

A counterfeit princess, a ridiculous charade—yet it had altered everyone's destiny.

Reynard stopped, taking my hand in his. His palm felt warm and strong, banishing the final shadows from my heart. He gazed at me with knightly resolve in those lake-green eyes.

"Destiny may be capricious," he said, his voice deep with conviction, "but a true knight pledges his loyalty to one person alone—for life."

I met his gaze, and every lingering doubt dissolved beneath the weight of his sincerity.

Indeed, in relinquishing a false crown, I had discovered the knight who truly belonged at my side.