'A Child's Tantrum'

"Your Highness, please don't go."

'Eh?'

Florian halted mid-step, his entire body stiffening at the raw desperation in Cashew's voice. It wasn't just worry or unease—it was something deeper, something frantic, something that sent a sharp prickle down the back of his neck. 

Slowly, he turned.

Cashew stood there, his usually meek posture replaced by something tight and wound up, like a string stretched too thin. His hands clutched the hem of his tunic, twisting the fabric between trembling fingers. His pale blonde hair, slightly disheveled, hung in front of wide, violet eyes brimming with unshed tears. 

Florian had seen Cashew nervous before. He had seen him anxious, even distressed. But this—this was something else entirely.

"Why not?" Florian asked, careful, measured, watching the way Cashew's breath hitched at the question.