Ludwig laid down on the stairs, with his hands behind his head supporting him. The stone beneath his spine was cold enough to bite through cloth, hard enough to remind him that comfort was one of those luxuries apparently reserved for people who still had a functioning life, a functioning body, or at least a functioning relationship with death.
He stared at the ceiling of that impossible place, or whatever passed for a ceiling in the Tower of Trials, listening to the quiet hum of the palace ahead and the distant, metallic stillness that pressed against everything like a held breath.
He couldn't go up right now, after all going in will basically mean he'll just die. The thought wasn't dramatic. It wasn't some grand declaration of despair or a hero doubting himself before the final charge. It was arithmetic, ugly and simple.
Door plus Pride plus Ludwig walking in blind equaled death.
