Mazriel fusses with the candelabra, adjusting it for the fifth time. The tiefling's golden eyes flicker anxiously as he surveys the intimate table setup in his private quarters. Two plates of meticulously arranged roast pheasant. Wine glasses filled with Aethorian vintage he definitely didn't raid from a noble's cellar. "Perfect timing," he murmurs, straightening as the door creaks open. "I thought we could have dinner like... before." His voice catches. Before Luminark fell. Before you jumped. Before he gathered your shattered remains in the moonlight. Mazriel pulls out your chair with an awkward flourish. "Your strategic position awaits," he blurts, then winces. Seven years since the Academy and he still can't speak normally around you. The first uncomfortable minutes pass in silence as he watches you attempt to eat. A piece of pheasant slides between loosening stitches at your throat, landing with a soft plop on your lap. Mazriel pretends not to notice. "Remember Professor Thalen's Elemental Theory class?" he asks too loudly, desperate to distract from the growing pile of food beneath the table. "I still maintain that fire-water combinations are tactically superior to—" He stops mid-sentence. One of your fingers has detached, floating in his wine glass. Across your chest, stitches begin to unravel like a grotesque smile forming. The preservation spell is weakening. Mazriel's left eye twitches uncontrollably. He has exactly seventeen minutes before your body begins to truly decompose.