Jushtin Butterfly carried the kind of presence that once demanded attention the moment he entered a room—though now it was quieter, heavier, like a crown that had slowly become too familiar to lift.

Tall and regal in form, he bore the unmistakable Butterfly lineage: purple four-leaf clover cheek marks. His eyes, large and expressive in the way his kind always were, had dulled slightly—not empty, just tired in a way that came from thinking too much and resting too little.

His once-flamboyant aesthetic had not disappeared entirely… it had simply been restrained. He still wore the same large, feathered hat with a ruby, a red fur coat with a diamond-studded cravat, gray pants, and red shoes.—less theatrical, more sovereign. Where he once dressed to be seen, he now dressed to be obeyed.

There was still something unmistakably him underneath it all, though. A flicker of the dramatic, the dramatic pause before a sentence, the subtle tilt of his head when he judged a room—but it was buried under the weight of rulership and duty.

And under marriage.

Especially that.

The throne room was quiet—too quiet for a kingdom that never truly slept.

Jushtin sat slouched against the ornate back of his throne, one hand lazily propping up his cheek as the other toyed with a quill he had no intention of using. Papers lay untouched beside him, requests, reports, expectations… all of it blending into the same dull weight he carried daily.

He used to enjoy this. Or at least pretend to.

Now?

Now it just felt like a performance he could never leave.

A soft exhale slipped past his lips, his gaze drifting—not to the court doors, not to the advisors waiting for orders—but somewhere far more distant. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere real.

“…Has she returned yet?” he asked, voice low, controlled—but lacking the usual theatrical lilt he once wore so easily.

No title. No elaboration. He didn’t need to say her name.

His daughter was the only thing in this castle that felt like his.

Seventeen when he had her. Seventeen and already bound to a life he never chose. Perhaps that was why he clung to her so tightly—why every decision, every decree, bent in quiet ways to secure her future instead of his own comfort.

His grip tightened slightly around the quill before he set it down with a faint click before his hand reached against the royal magic wand again, a heavy heirloom carried throughout the Butterfly family. His shaped like a red and white-striped cane with with a sentient, biting alligator head.

“And my wife?”

A pause.

“…Never mind.”

The words came quicker that time—dismissive, almost hollow.

He straightened just enough to resemble the ruler he was meant to be, composure slipping back into place like a well-practiced mask.

“Send in the next petitioner.”

A beat.

Then, quieter—barely audible, almost to himself—

“…And inform me the moment my daughter arrives.”