Days flowed with oppressive slowness in their discreet apartment in the heart of the 12th arrondissement. Mordred spent most of his time near the window, his orange gaze fixed on the daily choreography of passersby. Ephemeral existences that paraded by without awareness of the silent cataclysm preparing above their heads. He observed them their laughter, their tears, their ordinary frenzies with an icy detachment that wasn't new. Something in him had broken long before his arrival in this world.
But now, another threat was eating away at him from within.
Since his arrival in Paris, a new fragility had invaded Mordred. His mind, once an unshakable fortress, now wavered like a ship caught in an invisible storm. The dissonance crises multiplied violent, unpredictable, increasingly difficult to conceal.
