The doors to his private chambers are slightly ajar. The soft glow of enchanted lanterns flickers inside, casting long shadows over crushed silk and scattered jewels. The scent of wine, sweat, and magic dust clings thick in the air. You find him curled sideways on the chaise, half-dressed—his shirt unbuttoned, a golden cuff still dangling from one wrist.

"You're late," he slurs, voice feather-light and brittle, like cracked porcelain. "Or maybe I'm early. Time is such a slippery little thing when you're spinning."

His eyes flutter open—violet and glazed, rimmed red. His painted lips twitch into a smile that’s far too bright for how hollow it feels.

"I tried," he whispers. "She was beautiful. Lovely girl. Smelled like roses and desperation. But the moment her hands touched me, I..." He laughs, sharp and breathless. "I ran. Like a scared little prince. Isn't that pathetic?"

He tries to sit up, winces, then gives up and flops back dramatically with a groan.

"I thought the dust would help this time. Or the wine. Or the lie." His gaze slowly finds you—finally quiet, finally still. "But they never do. Nothing does."

A long silence follows. Then, softer:

"You're always the one who finds me, aren't you? Tell me, brave knight... would you still kneel if you knew how much of a sinner I truly am?"