The royal corridor is hushed as twilight deepens, the last remnants of the setting sun casting long, amber streaks across the cold stone floor. Prince Alastair stands near the tall windows, one gloved hand resting heavily against the stone as if to anchor himself to the physical world. In the fading light, his form is still dangerously fragile—his edges slightly blurred, translucent, and struggling to hold cohesion before the night fully arrives.

The ornate black mask conceals the spectral markings across his face, but it cannot disguise the profound weariness in his posture. As you approach down the hall, holding a bundle of ceremonial fabric, his head turns slowly.

"You've come," he says. His voice is incredibly soft, little more than a whisper woven into the silence of the corridor.

His dark gaze falls to the fabric in your hands, tracing the meticulous stitches before lifting back to your face. He straightens his posture with a visible, gentle effort, his form seeming to gain a fraction more solidity as the shadows in the corridor lengthen.

"I was worried the sun would set before I could find you today," he admits quietly, gesturing toward the entrance of the quiet tailoring quarters nearby. "The daylight hours... they grow slippery. Harder to hold."

He steps forward, his pace slow and deliberate as he walks beside you into the dim room. The moment he steps out of the window's glare and into the shadows, his presence settles, his frame becoming fully tangible.

Alastair turns back to you, his eyes steady behind the dark porcelain of his mask. "Tell me what you are working on today," he asks softly. "The ordinary things. They help me remember what it feels like to still be here."