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T he morning wind bit through his shirt. William walked with no coat, no cravat, no destination.

People turned to stare. A few paused in concern. He saw their hesitation, their whispered questions. If they recognized his face, they didn't try to approach him. Unkempt, unmoored. A duke out of costume. Better for them.

His hands were cold. He tucked them under his arms and kept walking.

Was he the villain?

He had done what he thought was right. The war? He had supported it to protect the country. To preserve stability. But what had they preserved in Badajoz? Rape. Looting. Officers laughing while smoke swallowed Spanish rooftops. And his voice—his vote—had helped fund it.

Helene. He thought he was shielding her. Guiding her. Elevating her. But his love had clipped her wings, his protection turned to control, and when she needed him most, when she reached out—he hadn't caught her. She had fallen. And he had watched.

Why had he sacrificed his love for Helene? Was it for his legacy? The emptiness of such pursuits mocked him now. Was it for his sanity? He had never felt more unhinged. What was a legacy without love?

Helene was not only across the channel. She was in another world entirely—an enemy land—farther from his grasp than when she was a sprite haunting his dreams. The realization stabbed him. She was gone—and with her, the part of him that had once dared to dream beyond the confines of duty.

And now Farley. The country's liberal mind. A man who wrote what he believed, who loved as he pleased. And William had helped coerce him into silence.

Perhaps Rodrick had been right. The path to hell was paved with good intentions. If only he had worn the villain's mask instead of the Silent Sovereign's crown, people would have known to protect themselves from him.

A sharp, repetitive rustle caught his attention.

Echo's birdcage came into view. The bird threw himself against the bars. His wings struck the brass with a dull thud. Again. And again.

William stopped.

He approached slowly and crouched beside him.

"Easy," William murmured, and reached a hand through the bars.

Gently, he ran a thumb down Echo's head, and the bird stilled.

They stayed like that—man and creature—two forms of containment.

Echo tilted his head. " Who are you ?"

William froze. The voice, in the nasal tone, affected him as if it came from a priest.

He looked into the bird's eyes, and something in his chest gave way.

Who was he, indeed?

He had spent his life controlling himself, keeping the beast inside himself in check. And forcing others to do the same. And where did it lead to? Did he do any good? Helene was gone. Badajoz would forever be a scar in the army's memory... but Farley.

Being the villain would be easy. All he had to do was return home. Let Thornley send in the Horse Guards.

William closed his eyes. The wind shifted around him. Somewhere in the distance, bells marked the hour. The raid would begin soon.

Echo didn't move—just blinked as if waiting to see what came next.

William stood, fingers curling into fists, then loosening again. He had made mistakes.

But there was still a choice in front of him.