The Dying Man’s Truth

The blade sinks deep. with my eyes somehow closed, dreading it but still going through with it. for my daughter, for my husband and unborn child.

I feel it—steel tearing flesh, the warmth of blood spilling against my hand. His body jolts, a sharp intake of breath ripping from his chest. For one heartbeat, for one impossible second, the world stands still.

Damian Blackthorne—the man I swore to kill—staggers backward, eyes wide, lips parted in shock.

I expect rage. A curse. A roar of fury.

But it doesn’t come. He just looks at me with something arching to pity or sorrow, i do not understand his reactions.

His hand shoots out, not to strike me, not to push me away, but to grip my wrist. His fingers clamp down hard, trembling, blood running between them. He holds me as if anchoring himself in the storm.

And his gaze—God, his gaze. Not anger. Not betrayal. But something softer. Something I cannot name.

The sound of his breathing is ragged, wet. Each inhale a struggle. Each exhale painted in red. His shirt blossoms with blood, the stain spreading fast, soaking through the fabric, dripping down to the rooftop tiles.

I should feel triumph. Victory. The end of a long, burning road.

But all I feel is shaking. My whole body trembles, my chest heaving, my throat raw with a scream I cannot release.

His lips move, forming words that scrape out rough, broken, i move closer so i can hear him better.

“Why…?” he asks me gently , with that sympathy still shinning in his eyes.

My voice comes out as a whisper, trembling, cracked:

“For my husband. For my daughter. For the baby you killed.”

The words slice the air between us. My confession. My vengeance. My truth.

For a moment, silence. The city still glitters below, blind to the blood staining its king.

Then Damian coughs—wet, violent. His body folds slightly, but his grip on me only tightens. His eyes—still sharp, still unbearably alive—burn into mine.

And he speaks.

Low. Hoarse. Dying.

“It wasn’t me.”

I blink. The words don’t fit. They don’t make sense.

His breath hitches, chest convulsing as another surge of blood spills past his lips. But still he forces the words out, each syllable carved from pain.

“It was him… not me. Your uncle.” I almost laughed until i saw his serious expression, my uncle? you mean the same one who has been a father to me?

The world tilts.

My heart stops. NOPE, this guy has got to be shitting me.

“No.” The word rips from me, broken, desperate. “No—don’t. Don’t you dare—”

But he doesn’t stop. His strength is failing, but his voice stays steady, as if he needs me to hear this before the dark takes him.

“Your uncle… he ordered it. He gave the name. I never touched them. I never touched you.”

My knees weaken, threatening to collapse. The rooftop spins, the city lights blur into streaks of fire.

“No,” I whisper again, shaking my head. “You’re lying. You’re trying to save yourself.”

But deep inside, in the hollow place where pain lives, something cracks.

Because his eyes—those cold, merciless eyes—are not cold now , if am being honest they have never been cold to me. They are raw. Fierce. Drenched in truth.

And for the first time, I don’t see a monster.

I see a man drowning.

Blood gushes faster, soaking his hand, running down my wrist, painting me in scarlet. The dagger slips from my grasp, clattering against stone. My hands clutch at him instead, desperate, useless, trying to hold together what I’ve torn open.

“No, no, no,” I choke, pressing against the wound. “Don’t say that. Don’t put this on me. Don’t tell me I—”

But the words stick. Because I know.

I know my uncle .I know what he’s capable of .And suddenly, the memory of that night, of the whisper in my ear—Damian Blackthorne sends his regards—shifts, cracks, warps.

What if it wasn’t truth? What if it was a mask? What if the man I just stabbed, the man I built my hate upon, was never the enemy at all?

My chest caves, and I can’t breathe.

Damian’s weight buckles, his knees giving way. I catch him, or maybe he pulls me down with him—I don’t know. All I know is his body is in my arms, heavy, trembling, soaked in heat and blood. His breath rattles against my shoulder, weak, faltering.

“Why… why would you protect me?” I whisper, my tears spilling fast, blinding me. “Why would you—if you were guilty—why would you—”

His hand lifts, weak and shaking, brushing against my cheek. The touch is feather-light, a ghost of warmth.

“I told you,” he rasps, each word breaking. “I trusted you. I never wanted… to hurt you.”

His head falls against me, heavy, too heavy. His body sags, limp, his blood soaking through my gown, my skin, my soul.

“Damian?” My voice is sharp, panicked. I shake him. “Stay with me! Don’t—don’t you dare leave me now!”

But his eyes flutter. His breath shudders.

And I realize—I may have killed the wrong man.

The man who protected me .The man who saw me .The man who might never have been my enemy at all.

The city keeps shining below, beautiful and cruel, as if nothing has changed.

But everything has.

Because his body grows still in my arms .And I am left covered in his blood.

Frozen between victory and horror.