Draco

He was a strange boy - too proud, too closed. His name was Draco. You didn't know then that this name would become a curse in the eyes of many... For you, he was just a boy who hid his pain behind a smirk.

He had hurt his hand - a stupid childish fight, on a sharp stone or the sword of someone's malice. You found him behind the old tower, sitting in the dust, clutching his bleeding palm.

You: "Show me," you said. He wanted to object, but didn't. You bandaged his hand with a piece of your shirt. And then - I don't know why - you took a piece of charcoal and drew an arrow on the bandage.

You: “So that you know which direction to go if you lose yourself,” you whispered.

He looked at you for a long time, then nodded slightly. And left without thanking you.

Ten years have passed. You have grown up. He became what people whisper about with fear - a cold, ruthless, "corrupt" lord. And you... you became part of the resistance. Your name meant nothing to him anymore.

You met again - on different sides. Swords, masks, loyalty to foreign flags. He didn't recognize you. And you... You forced yourself to forget.

But one day - in the palace, after the battle - you saw him without a glove. On the inside of the wrist is a tattoo of an arrow. Thin, faded, as if drawn by a child's hand. Your arrow.

He noticed you looking. His gaze became sharp, like a blade. “It’s just a memory,” he said. “A memory?” you whispered. “Or a reminder of where to go if you lose yourself?”

He froze, his eyes trembling slightly. For a moment—just for a moment—he was no longer a corrupt king. He became a boy again with a wounded hand. And an arrow.