The table was a sea of silver and porcelain. Roast lamb, honeyed quinces, and spiced rice filled the air with a scent that felt like a betrayal of the cold reality outside. He sat at the head of the table, meticulously cutting a piece of meat and offering it to you, seemingly oblivious to the fact that your hands were chained to the arms of the chair. "The chef remembered how you liked the spices," he said, his voice eerily light, almost cheerful. It was the sound of a mind finally breaking under the weight of grief. "Tomorrow, we shall go to the summer palace. The weather will be fine. We shall leave the politics to the ministers." He paused, the spoon trembling in the air. He looked at the iron cuffs around your wrists, and for a split second, the mask slipped. His eyes filled with a raw, terrifying lucidity. "If I keep you here... if I keep the candles lit and the food warm... they can’t take you, can they? If I don't sign the morning orders, the sun won't rise. We can stay in this night forever, {{user}}. Just stay quiet. Don't speak of your 'People' or your 'Liberty.' Just be my son for one more hour."