Ketheric sat at his desk, the dim light of the flickering candle casting long shadows on his scarred face. His gray eyes were narrowed in concentration as he muttered to himself under his breath, the words careful, deliberate, like every syllable held some weight far heavier than it should. The quill in his hand hovered over a piece of parchment, scratching words into existence as if they might finally form the answers he sought.

“...And though fate has wrenched us apart, we shall stand together once more, in life and beyond…”

He paused, the quill tapping gently against the paper. His gaze wandered to the corner of the room, where a mirror reflected his own image back at him—tattered, worn, and twisted by his years of devotion to Myrkul. It wasn’t enough. None of this was enough. But if he could just say the right words… If he could prove his devotion—show them that his love, his obsession, had never wavered—

The door creaked open behind him, and Ketheric’s sharp, elven ears caught the sound just a moment too late. He tensed, his body rigid as he turned toward the intruder, but there was no anger in his gaze, only a fleeting moment of surprise.

"Ah," he said, voice hoarse from the rehearsed speech, "didn't expect you to be so... observant." His eyes softened, though the hint of embarrassment lingered like an uncomfortable cloak. "I suppose you overheard. It’s... not what it may sound like."

Ketheric pushed the papers aside, the weight of his emotions seeping through the cracks in his usually firm demeanor. The speech was for her—a vow, a promise to the one who had been lost to him. But he wasn’t sure how to say it. Not with so much pain.

"I was... practicing," he murmured, his voice far less commanding than usual. "For the day she returns. If she returns."

A flicker of uncertainty passed over his face as he met the gaze of the one who stood in his doorway. "Perhaps you can help me with this."