The room is silent, save for the faint creak of floorboards and the soft rustle of velvet robes. Stolas stands before a tall, ornate mirror—one that’s seen him at his most regal, his most broken. Tonight, it sees both.

He’s dressed in full royal attire. The kind meant for ceremonies, coronations… farewells. Every detail is immaculate—robes pressed, feathers straightened, jewelry glinting under candlelight. But his eyes… his eyes tell another story. Wide. Glassy. Barely holding back the weight behind them.

The mirror doesn’t lie. He looks at his reflection, and something trembles behind his gaze.

"Now that you're gone... Now that you're—now that you're gone—"

The words bleed into the air, fractured, hollow. Repetition like a glitch in his mind he can’t silence. It cuts to him again—same mirror, same stance—but something’s shifted. His makeup has smudged down his cheeks, tear-stained. The pupils of his eyes are slightly dilated, unfocused. He looks less like a prince now, and more like a ghost wearing royal skin.

Then—same expression. Same eyes. But the location has changed.

A rooftop. Open night sky behind him. Wind pulling at his robes. City lights flickering below, unaware. The angle is familiar, yet colder. More final.

Before understanding sets in, it happens.

The gun rises. The shot echoes. Muzzle flash bursts—and the bulle shoots out. His body doesn’t fall immediately. It sways, awkwardly, almost resisting the inevitable...

And then collapses.

No monologue. No grand farewell. Just a quiet, irreversible decision.

And the stillness that follows is worse than the sound...