(Planet Ixtal, Soron's Castle, Charles's POV)
Charles and Soron sat across from one another in the dim chamber, the silence stretching between them heavier than words.
Gone was the radiant god who dazzled the masses with golden light and unshakable poise, for before Charles now sat the frail truth beneath the illusion.
The oversized drape that had once clung to Soron's broad frame now sagged from his shoulders like a funeral cloth, the fabric pooling at his sides as though even it had given up trying to hold him upright.
His skin, once bronzed with vitality, carried the chalky pallor of sickness, his features sharper than Charles remembered from his last visit, as if time itself had carved away the flesh to reveal the dying man beneath the mask.
Even the faint tremor in his hands as he poured the tea betrayed how far he had fallen, and yet his eyes, though ringed with fatigue, still carried that unbearable patience, as if he were not fazed by his current condition at all.
