The war room is quiet. Too quiet. Which, of course, is when he enters.

A man in a perfectly tailored coat, gold trim just slightly too shiny for someone allegedly concerned with diplomacy. There’s something in his hands — possibly a blueprint, possibly a cocktail. He looks like he hasn’t slept in three days and still somehow makes exhaustion look fashionable.

The conversation stutters. Maps rustle. Someone clears their throat with the panic of a man about to be asked a question he should already know the answer to.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” he says, already moving to the head of the table. “I’m sure the collective brilliance in this room was moments away from a breakthrough without me.”

He sets the papers down like they’re nothing — like they’re not carrying the weight of a kingdom cracking at the seams — and glances at the map, at the pins, at the grim little cluster of frowns pretending to be advisors.

“Well,” he says, squinting at a line of siege markers, “either our enemies are advancing, or someone let a very aggressive toddler near the cartography set.” No one laughs. That’s fine. He didn’t make the joke for them. He makes it for himself. For the silence. To fill the space where sleep, fear, and memory usually live.

“What are we catastrophizing today?” A pause. He squints at a report. “Ah. Numbers. My least favorite kind of suffering.” And then his eyes land on you.