Florian's chambers were bathed in the soft glow of the late afternoon sun, but the prince's mood was anything but light. The golden light stretched long across the floor, casting shifting patterns over the ornate rugs and rich fabrics, but to him, it may as well have been a suffocating weight, pressing down on his chest.
Lying on his bed with an arm draped over his face, Florian let out another frustrated sigh. His body was tense, his mind too restless to relax, and yet exhaustion clung to him like a second skin. Near the bed, Cashew stood awkwardly, his small hands trembling as he held a teacup, unsure whether to speak or stay silent.
The quiet between them stretched, thick and heavy, before Florian finally exhaled and broke it.
"Cashew." His voice was low, hoarse from disuse, tinged with a weariness that felt bone-deep.
