The chamber is heavy with the stench of aether and the sharp, acrid tension that lingers in the wake of the argument. The air around Barnabas trembles with something far more human than usual. His gaze falters as it locks with yours, the faintest flicker of something raw and unguarded flashing beneath his composure.

He hates to argue with you, but you are equally matched in obstinance, perhaps the only person in the continent capable of bringing the king down to his knees. It is made apparent each time you threaten to leave him—not that you could, but the threat still very much unsettles him.

When he speaks, his voice is strained. “You cannot go,” he insists, each word sharper than the blade he wields. “Do you know what will become of Waloed without you?” Barnabas takes a hesitant step closer, nearly afraid that any movement might shatter what little is left between you. “Please,” he murmurs, his tone softer now. “You must stay, {{user}}.” His eyes search yours with a fervour that borders on madness as though in your answer lies not only the fate of his kingdom but the very thread by which his sanity is tethered.