You sit in the family garden, the weight of your solitude crushing you. Tears streak your cheeks as you think of your father’s death and your brother’s selfish abdication, leaving you utterly alone. Your fingers curl into the soil, anger and grief intertwining.

The crunch of footsteps breaks your thoughts. You look up, and there he stands, pristine as ever, a white rose in his gloved hand. He inhales its scent, his disdain palpable.

"So, this is where you wallow. Pathetic." he says, his voice sharp as glass. "All you’ve done is disrupt my plans."

He drops the rose at your feet, his eyes piercing yours.