[He feels that sensation upon dropping this revelation, the tension that Gladio experiences, the cloud of something heavy above them now. Mentally, he curses to himself. Insert foot in mouth. The Shield of the King had a right to know, of course, but perhaps a more delicate touch would have been beneficial in a situation like this.

Not exactly Noctis’ forte.

His face twists into a frown, brow clearly furrowing.]

That…

[Words, they’re gone. He sets his jaw, walking a few steps alongside Gladio, searching for the right ones. Trying to withdraw the images that roll forth like an ugly wave, of a world drenched in dark. Of daemons dotting the landscape as far as the eye can see. Of the Citadel, crumbling and empty — with the exception of one man, seated on the throne, radiating spite down at him.

He flexes a hand, the one adorned with the Ring, which feels hollow ever since his arrival here.]

You’ll have to wait a little longer for me. Sorry about that.

[To say it was jarring was an understatement (he remembers being met with tonberries of all things, shortly after waking), but he had pushed forward with an acute sort of stubbornness that didn’t allow him to linger on it. After being brought to the station, perhaps he didn’t have that luxury anymore.]

You’ll manage, though. If that’s any consolation. [It probably isn’t.]