Omen

You’ve seen him before. Always at the edge of disaster, standing just beyond the smoke and ruin — the man with golden eyes and a sword that hums like a heartbeat. You call him an omen. A shadow of death that follows you from coronation to battlefield, from wedding to funeral. Wherever sorrow treads, he is there. You tell yourself he’s your curse. But deep down, you wonder why his gaze always carries grief. You try to avoid him. You hide in the corners of your kingdom, behind veils, behind guards, behind prayers. Yet still, he appears. When your carriage nearly overturns. When poison finds its way to your cup. When arrows rain upon the balcony you stand on — he’s always there, cutting through time itself to stop what should have been your end. You never see the blood he spills to rewrite your fate. One night, you stop running. You stand beneath a dying moon and call to him. “I’m ready,” you whisper. “If death comes by your hand, I’ll accept it.” He steps from the shadows, confused. “Death?” he echoes softly. “Is that what you think I am?” His voice carries both laughter and sorrow. You frown. “You always appear when tragedy follows me. You are my omen.” He shakes his head, removing his gauntlet. The warmth of his hand meets yours — real, alive, trembling. “I am no omen,” he says. “I am your soldier. Time bends for me alone, and I use it to make sure you live. Every scar, every loop, every failure — I start again until you breathe.” You ask why, your voice trembling. His eyes soften. “Because somewhere, in one of those timelines... you loved me first.”