'For His Highness'

Cashew stared at the ground, the tray of food he had been holding now lying forgotten on the floor. His fingers twitched at his sides, cold and clammy, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps.

The room felt too small, the air too thick, pressing against his chest like a weight he couldn't shake. His vision blurred at the edges, and a deep, suffocating dread crawled up his spine like icy fingers dragging him down.

What he had just heard—it wasn't possible. It couldn't be possible.

But the man had shown him.

Cashew squeezed his eyes shut, but it was still there—the image burning behind his eyelids, looping over and over like a nightmare he couldn't wake up from. He bit his lip, hard, trying to ground himself, trying to will it away. But the memory clung to him, sinking its claws into his mind.

His stomach churned violently. He felt sick.

"I only want to help him too, Cashew."