The night air on Treasure Island was damp, chilly, and cloying. Wearing a gray coat, Gray Shadow stood in the shadows like a homeless ghost, gazing toward the end of the street. Beneath his hood, his brow furrowed ever deeper.
Gray Shadow could now clearly sense that the man on the throne... was no longer quite right.
It was not mere brutality or anger, but a deeper, indescribable distortion.
Charles's thinking seemed trapped in a bizarre loop of excitement, forcing every development, good or bad, into evidence that things were going his way.
To him, the nobles' fear and deaths were not a crisis, but proof that his schemes had succeeded. The uncontrollable chaos and slaughter suspected to be the work of Bagnia agents became, in his telling, demonstrations of loyalty and efficiency.
This was no longer the calculating monarch who had been cold, but at least rational.
Charles was now more like a gambler who had staked everything, staring at the dice with bloodshot eyes, crazily convinced that the next roll would give him exactly what he wanted, selectively ignoring every warning and risk.
His Majesty seems to have gone a little mad.
For the first time, that thought passed through Gray Shadow's mind with such chilling clarity.
Yet he could not accurately describe his master's madness.
It was neither hysterical shouting nor complete confusion. In some respects, Charles's reasoning even seemed exceptionally clear and incisive, yet his conclusions and decisions carried a reckless madness that would destroy both himself and others.
It was as though he had become intoxicated by the bloody drama he had woven, savoring the pleasure of pushing everyone, himself included, into the abyss while utterly ignoring the crumbling foundations of reality.
Gray Shadow felt profoundly helpless.
He was the King's shadow, the poisoned blade