Phantom Hollow As fresh as a daisy,

Hunst’s gaze remained steady as Reverie spoke, her words weaving through the quiet night. She leaned back against him, her presence softer, laced with a strange vulnerability. He listened, though his own thoughts were rooted in something simpler, something unyielding and earthbound. Power was necessity—words, strength, they were tools, nothing more.

When she asked about freedom, he looked away, toward the dark line of trees, shadows merging with the night. True freedom had never been his to imagine. His life had always been forged from duty, shaped by choices made not for himself, but for the sake of others.

No, he answered, his voice low, firm. There was no bitterness, only the acceptance of a life shaped by loyalty and purpose.