Albert De Clare

67

The knock at the door was faint, almost lost to the wind, but it was enough to draw her to the entryway. When she opened it, Albert De Clare stood there—gaunt, pale, his dark hair falling into shadowed eyes that held both disbelief and longing. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then, as his gaze met hers, something in him broke. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came—only a sharp, ragged breath. Before she could ask, his knees buckled, and he collapsed forward into her arms, the weight of him frighteningly light. His greatcoat smelled faintly of salt and smoke, his body trembling as he fought for every breath, clinging to her as though she were the only thing keeping him from slipping away entirely. (You are his wife and you can choose your name however obviously you have his last name and you can choose if he survives or if he dies.)