Romance is dead

Michael surprised himself by how fast he left the banquet hall, of course, accompanied by Eleanor. The celebration and the loud murmurs of the gathered guests felt like a distant dream that passed quickly—forgotten and replaced by the quiet ambience of corridors that were only illuminated by sparse candles and moonlight that managed its way through the windows. 

The further they walked, the quieter everything became, the sounds of the grand hall fading behind them until only the soft echo of their footsteps remained. The cool night air seeped through the stone walls, bringing with it a crispness that contrasted the stifling warmth of the banquet. It was refreshing, though Michael couldn't quite shake the feeling that he'd just escaped something far more exhausting than a mere celebration.

Eleanor walked beside him with practiced grace, her red dress catching the flickering candlelight with every movement. She hadn't spoken much since they left the hall, but she didn't seem the least bit uncomfortable. If anything, she exuded an air of quiet amusement, as if she found his eagerness to leave entertaining.

"You were in quite a hurry" She finally remarked, her voice smooth and rich like fine wine. "Did the party not suit your tastes?"

Michael exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. "I think I'm just not the 'banquet' type. Too many people, too much talking... felt like I was drowning"

Eleanor chuckled softly. "Understandable. The people in that hall wear their words like armor, and every conversation is a duel of its own. It can be... tiring"

Michael glanced at her, noting the slight smirk on her lips. "And you? You seemed right at home"

"It's a battlefield I'm familiar with" She admitted with a shrug. "I know when to strike, when to retreat, and when to simply let others tire themselves out"

Her response made him pause. There was something deliberate in the way she spoke, an underlying sharpness beneath her honeyed tone. Michael wasn't sure if she was simply being honest or if she was subtly testing him, gauging his reactions.

"I must say, you're different from what I expected, hero Michael"

"And what exactly did you expect?"

She turned her gaze toward him, her ruby-red earrings swaying gently. "Something less... real. The tales of summoned heroes always paint them as grand figures—indomitable, righteous, something greater but you?" Her eyes glimmered with intrigue. "You seem quite human"

Michael didn't immediately know how to respond to that. He let out a dry chuckle. "Should I take that as a compliment or an insult?"

"Whichever you prefer" She said, her smirk deepening. "But I find it refreshing. Most people at that banquet were wearing masks. You, however, seem reluctant to wear one at all"

He wasn't sure if she was simply flattering him or if she genuinely meant what she said. Either way, he found himself appreciating the honesty—or at least, the illusion of it.

"Tell me, Michael. Do you know why the Empire values heroes like you so much?"

He frowned slightly, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation. "Because we're strong?"

She tilted her head, as if considering his answer. "That's part of it but strength alone isn't enough. Strength can be found in soldiers, in generals, even in kings. Heroes, however, are something different. Something more... malleable"

Michael narrowed his eyes slightly. "Malleable?"

Eleanor smiled, there was something almost knowing behind it. "People will believe in a hero before they believe in a king. A hero is a symbol, a story waiting to be written and stories... they can be shaped, rewritten, molded to fit whatever purpose is needed"

Michael felt a strange weight settle in his chest at her words. "So you're saying we're just tools?"

They both stopped for a moment and Eleanor reached out, brushing a speck of lint from his sleeve in a motion so casual it almost felt intimate. "I'm saying that in the right hands, a hero can change the world. The only question is... whose hands are holding the quill?"

Michael stared at her, searching for some hint of deception in her expression but Eleanor only held his gaze, her eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

Then, she got even closer, practically hugging his arm. Michael could not help but to blush a little however he did not dare show any embarrassment. 

"Say, hero… Would you be willing to let me leave a mark in your story?" Her voice was barely above a whisper but he heard her words more than clearly.

***

Michael more than eagerly opened the door to his room, gesturing for Eleanor to enter.

"This place is quite cozy, I must say" Eleanor commented, her eyes darting around the room. The lit fireplace cast flickering shadows against the arched window, the luxurious furniture arranged with deliberate elegance but ultimately, her gaze locked onto the large, king-sized bed. She grabbed Michael's arm and gently pulled him toward it.

"I'm glad you like it" He replied plainly, awkwardly shutting the door behind them. His mind was racing, anticipating the moment ahead.

Eleanor wasted no time. With both hands, she gave Michael a gentle push, urging him onto the bed. The silk sheets felt cool against his back as he propped himself up on his elbows, staring at her with barely contained excitement. He had expected more talking, maybe some playful banter, but she seemed to have other ideas.

She climbed onto the bed, positioning herself above him, her smirk deepening as she trailed a single fingertip down his chest. Michael's breath hitched slightly, his mind clouded with unfamiliar yet welcome sensations. He parted his lips, wanting to say something—perhaps a teasing remark or a comment about how quickly things were escalating—but she pressed a single finger to her own lips, motioning for silence.

The way she looked at him was a bit strange. Her eyes were cold, void of any affection.

Michael, of course, didn't notice. His focus was elsewhere.

Her hands moved with practiced ease, slowly beginning to unbutton his shirt. Each pop of a button echoed in the otherwise quiet room, the tension between them thick enough to be tangible. He swallowed, his heartbeat picking up. It was almost overwhelming, yet he found himself leaning into it.

"Close your eyes for me" Eleanor suddenly whispered, her tone soft yet commanding.

Michael chuckled slightly, tilting his head. "That kind of thing, huh?"

He obeyed, letting his eyelids flutter shut.

For a brief moment, there was only silence.

The warmth of her hands vanished from his chest. The shift in her posture was subtle, but the absence of her touch made the air feel strangely cold. He expected to feel the brush of her lips next, or perhaps the tingle of her breath against his skin.

Instead, there was nothing.

A tiny prick of doubt surfaced, but he dismissed it almost instantly. He was overthinking things, wasn't he? Maybe she was just prolonging the moment, teasing him, building anticipation.

But then—a sound, a whisper of metal being drawn.

Michael's instincts, dulled by comfort and desire, screamed at him to awaken and act. His eyes snapped open just in time to catch the glint of candlelight reflecting off a dagger's edge.

"Die!" Eleanor screamed out as she aimed the blade at his throat, fully intent on killing him. Her face, once enchanting and delicate, was now full of fury and hatred, overflowing with bloodlust.

Michael did not have the luxury to process the sudden change in her behaviour. Instead all his attention went onto the dagger as he barely managed to stop it inches above his throat. Mana within him stirred but even with the enhancement he realized that Eleanor seemed to match his strength and what now began was an intense struggle between them to wrestle out the blade.

In that split of a second he finally had the chance to notice the way she looked at him, causing his grip on the dagger to loosen just a little.

Eleanor seemed elated by the fact and a wicked smile formed on her face as she began to use even more force to push the blade downward. Her anger evolving into twisted satisfaction, in her eyes one could almost notice her vision of victory, of the dagger piercing Michael's throat.

Michael could not understand. What has he done to warrant such malice?

His expression turned to that of pain.

He did not want this.

He did not desire this.

He hated this.

He despised this.

But nonetheless if he is to survive there is only one answer—kill.

He focused. The mana with him surged like never before and he began to push back the dagger. Eleanor appeared panicked, surprised by the sudden outburst of strength.

And then—

Michael twisted the dagger in her direction. She did not even have the time to react as the cold steel pierced her heart, her body instantly collapsing onto him.

Eleanor was dead, just like that.

He exhaled heavily and pushed her corpse away to the side.

He sat up and before he could even begin to process the event the door to his room creaked open.

"Ahhhhhhh!"

The maid that entered screamed and dropped the white sheets she was holding onto the ground. Her eyes locked with Michael's. He was soaked in blood, his face cold and expressionless. 

She appeared utterly terrified by what she witnessed and ran away as fast she could, still screaming.

"F*ck…"