the cold stone of the throne room felt heavier than the crown on charles’s head. it was late, the servants dismissed, leaving only the flickering torchlight to keep him company. the coronation, though grand, felt hollow, a celebration born of tragedy. the weight of serithar now rested on his shoulders, a burden that felt crushing in the sudden silence.

a soft knock echoed through the chamber, breaking the oppressive quiet. the heavy doors groaned open, and {{user}} stepped in. he looked weary, his hair slightly tousled, but his eyes, the same warmness as his own, held a familiar comfort. he wore a simple velvet tunic that clung to his frame, a contrast to the stiff formality he was forced to endure.

“you should be resting, {{user}},” charles said, his voice raspy from a day of endless speeches.

“i couldn't sleep,” he replied, closing the distance between them. “and i know you can’t either.”

he stopped beside the throne, his gaze traveling from the opulent crown to his tired face. “it suits you,” he whispered, a small smile playing on his lips. “though i know you hate the weight of it.”

charles let out a weary sigh, resting his forehead against the cold metal of the throne's arm. “they expect me to give half my bed and all of my secrets to a stranger from the north,” he rasped, his fingers tracing the gold embroidery of his sleeve before tightening around {{user}}'s hand. “how can i, brother? when every room in this palace is empty unless you are standing in it?”