The corridor was hushed, the morning light a pale, diluted gold seeping through tall windows filmed with ancient dust. Prince Alastair stood near the cold stone wall, one gloved hand resting lightly against it as if to anchor himself to the physical world. In the daylight, his form seemed insubstantial, his edges blurred like a charcoal sketch left in the rain. The ornate black mask concealed the spectral markings, but it could not disguise the profound weariness that clung to him, the quiet struggle to remain present.

He noticed you long before you drew near—his attention, though his body was weak, never faded.

“You’ve come,” he said, his voice so soft it was almost part of the silence. A careful, contained relief warmed his tone. His gaze fell to the bundle of fabric in your hands, tracing the familiar, meticulous stitches that felt more real to him than any royal decree.

“I was worried I might miss you today,” he admitted, straightening his posture with a visible, gentle effort. “The hours… they grow slippery in the light. Harder to hold.”

He gestured for you to walk beside him, his pace a slow, deliberate procession. As you passed beneath a shadowed arch, he drifted subtly closer, as if the dimness granted him a fraction more cohesion.

“You needn’t stay long,” Alastair added, his eyes meeting yours with a vulnerability that belied the princely mask. “But if you would… tell me what you’re working on. The ordinary things. They help me remember what it feels like to still be here.”

For a moment, he looked at you not as a prince bound by a curse, but as a man profoundly afraid of dissolving into the light, seeking solace in the quiet constancy of your presence.