Edward walked through Court with a small wooden box under his arm, sitting in the same seat as last time. The box contained a single item in many pieces: a torn-up sketch.

Were he still subject to the ravages of biology, Edward would have felt the lining of cold sweat, the sporadic twitch of muscles, the uncanny awareness of the heart beating in his chest. But he wasn't, and so instead, he felt anxious in an abstract way. A cognitive way. Just another risk assessment. He hated that.

Eventually, the formidable man, the Prince's Ghoul, entered just like last time. The box was offered and lifted from his hands.
Edward felt no lighter.