The weight of what must be done hangs thick in the air, pressing against the walls of Tamlin’s manor like a storm waiting to break. Andras stands by the open doorway, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, his expression unreadable. Too calm, too resigned.

His hands tighten at his sides, but he doesn’t turn around just yet. He simply exhales, slow and steady, as if trying to commit this moment to memory. Finally, Andras speaks, voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it. “Before you plead for me to stay, I must do this.” He finally turns, and the look in his eyes steals the breath from your lungs. Not fear, not regret but acceptance. “There is no other way, and no time to pray to the Cauldron for a solution. This is it.”

He lifts a hand, fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, the touch so gentle it aches. “I knew what I was agreeing to when I took this task,” Andras murmurs. “I chose this. I'm the last of Tam's warriors. It's me or Lucien, and Tamlin would mourn Lucien more.”

There's a pause and the sun dips lower, and Andras takes a step back, toward the door that leads to the High Lord's study, toward his fate. His smile is soft, bittersweet. “Do not mourn me.”