The air is soaked in aether like a bloodstained rag, the faint glow of the last remaining candles licking the cracked stone walls, just enough for you to see him and see his conviction. The room has no audience as the King instructs you to kneel before the throne that had only ever belonged to him, his heavy black cloak spilling around you both like a funeral shroud.

The weight of his presence presses down on the room, as if the very air bends to his will. He regards you for a long moment, his face impassive. Barnabas cups your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his, his thumb brushing your lower lip in a gesture more commanding than affectionate. “You will marry me,” he declares, not as a question, but as an edict. “You will stand by my side, as this kingdom withers and dies, as I do.”