[He had thought the same. His mind flashing back to a time years ago — his conversation with Bahamut, how that dread astral had summoned a semblance of Aera with a faux smile, made to torture him and force a reality into his mind: there was no escaping the fate destiny had wrought for him, no matter how hard he denied it.

Was this similar? X’rhun, who stood before him in this foreign, shadowed place, appeared real and sounded real. But if he reached out, would he be met with the cut of a blade? Would he be laughed at? If he cracked his heart open by mere inches in this moment, would a knife be slid through its middle?

For as easily as Ardyn summons up his usual flippant manner, it does not come naturally today. Eyes narrow and he lets out a laugh that would fool no one; strained, frustrated, and distrusting. Amber eyes reflect distant torchlight, as if belonging to those of a specter.]

I could ask you the same thing. If you’re little more than an illusion sent to torture me, know that there is no pain so great that hasn’t already been dealt by your divine hand.

[If this is a trick of the astrals, he will not fall for it again.]

I’ve done my part. Let me rest, will you?