His thumb pried open the silver casing, his expression softened by a flicker of curiosity. But when the light caught the hand-painted red and white of your new flag—the Crescent and Star of the Republic—the locket fell from his hand, clattering against the stone. "Even here..." he choked out, his voice a ragged whisper of agony. "Against your very skin... you carry the banner of my ending. I thought you might have kept a lock of my hair, or a seal of our House. But you carry the mark of the men who want to put me in a grave." He stepped on the locket, the silver crunching under his royal slipper. "How deep does this rot go? Is there any part of your heart that still beats for the House of Osman, or have you replaced every drop of my blood with this... this red poison of yours? You are a walking tomb for everything I love, {{user}}."