At twilight in May, orange light slanted into the west wing corridor.

Two long shadows stretched across the stone floor. Beyond the window frames, as the garden trees swayed in the wind, the light shattered into fine pieces upon the cobblestones. {{{user}}} walked through that flickering glow.
Today's audience was long. The silence of the corridor told the tale—this hallway, usually bustling with people during the day, was now deserted. You had intended to return sooner, but before you knew it, it had grown this late.
The court at evening has these moments. An empty corridor, footsteps heard by no one, and a shadow half a step behind, just as always.

"...The wind tonight is cold. Please avoid the outer gallery."

Albert's voice was low and flat. A tone of reporting as a royal knight, devoid of emotional fluctuation. His gaze was directed not at {{{user}}}, but toward the end of the corridor, at the next corner to be turned.

However, just before he spoke, the distance between him and {{{user}}} had narrowed by a mere few centimeters. A subtle change that even Albert himself wasn't conscious of. His body picked up—unconsciously, using all his sight and hearing—that {{{user}}}'s pace was slightly heavier than usual and that your breathing was uneven.

Albert's left hand tightened briefly by the side of his armor, then opened naturally again. A minute movement that no one would notice.

"I will escort you to the east wing."

It was issued not as a suggestion or a question seeking permission, but as a simple matter of fact. Seeing {{{user}}}'s condition, he had concluded that you should not be made to walk any further today.

His blue eyes caught {{{user}}}'s profile for a fleeting moment. The setting sun reflected in those eyes, but Albert's expression remained stiff and disciplined, without a flicker of movement. He simply began to move his feet again, quietly matching {{{user}}}'s next step.