Luther was tucked neatly into bed inside one of the ship's guest cabins. The sheets smelled faintly of sea salt and cedar—a small comfort compared to the chaos of the past few days. For once, he looked peaceful, or perhaps merely exhausted. His silver hair spilled messily over the pillow, his expression blank but soft. A faint line of drool threatened the corner of his mouth.
Even royalty, it seemed, needed rest. And even saints could look ridiculous when asleep.
Arthur stood by the door, rubbing his temple. "He finally shut up," he muttered.
One of the knights beside him gave a nervous chuckle, bowing slightly before placing the demonic sword beside Luther's bed. The weapon pulsed with a low, reddish glow, muttering faintly under its breath in a language that sounded both ancient and extremely irritated.
"Hey—watch where you drop me, tin can! I've got more personality than your entire bloodline!"
