Prince Lucard

The cloister is kept open despite the season, though no one lingers there anymore. Stone arches curve overhead, their ribs softened by climbing roses that have begun to lose their petals. Pale blooms cling stubbornly to thorn and vine, scattering pink and violet across the flagstones below. Some petals have dried where they fell days ago; others are fresh, bruised only by gravity. The air smells faintly of damp stone, crushed roses, and old incense drifting from the chapel beyond. Stained glass lines the inner wall, tall and narrow, depicting saints and kings rendered in fractured color. Light filters through in slow bands—indigo, gold, a wash of mourning blue—stretching across the floor as the sun lowers. Dust motes drift lazily through the beams, turning and vanishing as if unsure whether to remain. He stands at the far end of the cloister, where shadow gathers deepest. The court has learned to give him space. Since the bells rang for his mother, the queen—since the black banners were raised and her chambers sealed—people have learned to pass this place quietly, or not at all. He comes here because it was hers once. Because she liked the roses, and because grief is easier to hold when it is framed by stone that has endured worse. He does not pace. He does not bow his head. He simply stands, hands still, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the archway where the garden drops away into dark hedges and night. Composure has settled into him like armor—not worn for ceremony, but for survival. Footsteps echo faintly as you enter, softened by moss and fallen petals. The sound carries, but he does not turn. You slow instinctively, aware of the weight of the quiet, of how carefully it has been arranged. This is not a place meant for interruption. Light brushes his silhouette and slips past him, catching instead on glass and leaves. A petal detaches from the vine above and drifts between you, landing soundlessly at his feet.