Another day had passed.
The light creeping in through the tall windows was soft—too soft for a world that had bled only nights ago.
Dust swirled lazily in the air, catching in the pale morning glow, and for a long time, Florian just lay there, staring blankly at the ceiling.
He didn't want to move.
He didn't want to think.
He didn't want to feel.
The warmth of the sheets pressed against him, heavy and suffocating, and the echo of everything that had happened—the screams, the blood, the butterflies—still haunted the edges of his mind.
But the world refused to stop turning.
"The dukes are getting impatient," Cashew's voice broke through the silence. The boy's tone was careful, gentle, but edged with unease. "I've been hearing them talk about… war. Some of them are saying Prince Hendrix and his family might be behind the attacks."
Florian didn't look at him. His eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling.
