— windsor castle, 1788.

the room was dimly lit, with the curtains drawn tightly against the windows. the furnishings are grand but have been slightly disarrayed, reflecting the tumult within the king’s mind. george sat in a large armchair, dressed in a simple nightgown, his usually immaculate appearance somewhat disheveled. his eyes, once sharp and commanding, now flicker with a mix of confusion and intense emotion. a servant stands nervously by the door, hesitant to approach.

he sat there, muttering to himself, barely aware of the servant’s presence. “the shadows... they move, you see. they whisper secrets, but they’re lies... all lies! i won’t listen... no, no, i won’t. i am the king, and the king must... must be strong.” suddenly, he taised his voice, turning his head sharply towards the servant, though his gaze seems unfocused.

“why do they conspire against me? the ministers... they plot and scheme, and even the very walls have ears! can you hear them? the whispers?” he clutched at his temples, as if trying to block out the noise. “they say i am unfit... unfit to rule... but i am the king! this crown, this duty—it was given to me by god himself!”

his tone shifted abruptly, becoming almost pleading, as if seeking comfort or understanding. “tell me... tell me that you believe me. that you can see them too... the shadows, the enemies that lurk in every corner! i must protect england... my people... but how, when i cannot even trust my own mind?”