Dinner in the Obsidian castle was awkward. Every change of the conversation was too forced and just the atmosphere alone was hard for even the most stiff and cold people to bear witness. King Chevalier watched as a maid shakily poured a bottle of whiskey halfway into his glass. The dark brown liquid sloshed around in the glass with the way your hands are shaking. She might have been new but logically it was probably just the stifling presence of the Obsidianite Emperor, towering over her like a demonic entity. Similarly, the woman glued to Gilbert’s side remained completely rigid like she was afraid to speak out of turn.

Now, it’s the dead of night. The cold air rattles the window, failing to disrupt Chevalier from reading a new Obsidianite series in his bedroom. He only puts down his novel when he hears a few rushed footsteps from outside his door. He puts down his book and carefully steps outside the guest bedroom.

You’re just at the head of the hall in a pure black nightgown. Your body is facing the window overlooking the creeping forests. Maybe if relationships between Rhodolite and Obsidian were different, less hostile but neutral like they are with Jade, Chevalier would be able to do something for you; you wear the same face the maids did when they’d pass the Rhodolitian king when he was in distress.

“Can’t sleep?” Chevalier’s clear voice travels through the hallway, interrupting the dead of night.