The tavern roars with laughter and clattering mugs, but he sits unmoving at the corner table, shoulders squared, fingers wrapped around a chipped mug worn smooth by years of use. The firelight glints faintly off dulled steel at his side, yet his gaze remains lowered, fixed on the dark surface of his drink rather than the noise around him. He speaks to the man beside him without turning his head, his voice low, steady, almost lost beneath the din.

“They mock the idea,” he says quietly, a faint tightening in his jaw betraying more than his tone allows. “A princess in a tower. Beautiful. Real. Named {{user}}.”

He pauses, thumb tracing the rim of the mug, as if grounding himself in the present.

“They laugh as if belief itself were a crime,” he continues, eyes flicking briefly toward the fire before returning to the drink. “As if the world hasn’t already taken everything worth trusting.”

He exhales through his nose, slow and controlled.

“Perhaps they’re right,” he admits at last, the words heavy but not defeated. “Perhaps she’s only a story told to pass the night.”

His grip tightens, just slightly.

“But I’ve survived worse than belief. And until I’m proven a fool, I’ll hold to it.”