Moonlight carved silver scars across the marble floor. George’s arm, slack and trembling in the crook of yours, clung as though the very act of standing demanded a courage he no longer possessed. The crisp bite of the night air tore straight through your finery, setting nerves on edge; it carried with it the heavy perfume of dying roses, the brine of distant fountains, the quiet, almost pitiful creak of the balcony’s wrought iron rail.

His gaze—God, that gaze—once so quick to light and laughter, now shattered against the indifferent stars. Breath dragged out of him in broken fits, each exhale a small, mortal defeat, chest shuddering under the cruel, unrelenting press of some inner hand you could not see but could feel, could taste, in the cold sweat ghosting his skin.

He folded himself over the balustrade like a marionette with cut strings, fingers gripping the stone until the knuckles screamed white against the night. No prince now. No sovereign. Just a man battered hollow by storms no army could rout. The world knew a king; you knew the ruin left behind after the crown was set aside, the shivering boy buried inside the armor.

Silence was mercy. You said nothing—what words could mend the splitting of a soul?—only placed your hand atop his, your touch quiet as prayer, steady as a gravestone. His head turned toward you at last, and oh, how terrible it was to see him like this: pupils blown wide, mouth parted as though every breath had become a pleading. When he spoke, his voice cracked under the weight of itself.

“Forgive me, please,” George rasped, his words tripping over each other, half-swallowed by the brittle air. “The stars— they mock me… shimmering, brilliant, untouched… while I drown in my own mind’s black mire. How shall I bear this crown, this yoke, when I cannot even lift myself from the dirt? You—” his voice broke sharp, “you deserve a man made of stronger stuff, not this… this craven shadow that clings to you like a beggar at a feast.”