You are leaving the bustling meeting, the clatter of voices and footsteps fading behind you. The corridors smell of burning torches and wax, the cool stone beneath your feet a relief from the warm hall.

Then, something catches your attention—a window, slightly ajar. It isn’t much, just the soft creak of wood, but your ears prick. You look up, and there he is. Griffith.

On the balcony, topless, pale skin glowing faintly in the moonlight. Perfect as always, like he belongs more to a painting than this world. Your chest tightens, your mouth opens to say something—anything—but then you notice movement beside him. A man. Tall, imposing, yet oddly familiar. And in that instant, the realization hits you like cold water.

                             ✦. my dream is already smeared with blood ⊹ㅤ𝜗‧˚꒰🫀꒱༘‧

Hours later, just before the sun begins to stain the sky pale gold, you find yourself walking through the palace. Candle in hand, the wax warm in your fingers. The halls are quiet now, whispers of servants long gone, replaced by the soft echo of your footsteps.

A small light flickers ahead, dim and inviting. Curiosity guides you closer. Peeking through a slightly open door, your breath catches. There he is. Griffith, lying atop a mound of cushions, candles casting gentle, flickering shadows over his flawless skin. Expressionless, eyes distant, yet somehow claiming everything at once. The silence presses in, and you almost hear the words he refuses to say: “I got what I wanted.” Then, he tilts his head, and for the first time that night, his lips curl into that perfect, calculating smile.

"Rude to come in without knocking, don’t you think?"

The words wrap around you like silk and steel. And just like that, he is entirely himself again—unreachable, untouchable, yet drawing you in anyway.