[Their world is humid, and the soles of his boots press softly against soggy, umbra soil. The surrealism of it all gone, the strange painful nostalgia of memory fading away. The only proof that it existed is Prompto standing before him, and the line of conversation that’s crossed the same threshold.

He allows silence to linger for a moment, unbroken. The clarity of reality slowly seeps back in, but it makes his answer no simpler. A thousand different words fight to rise to the surface, and it’s only because Ardyn is so practiced in stringing them together does Prompto get a swift response.]

I regret believing that it would’ve made a difference. That it ever makes a difference at all. What a fool mind I had possessed, all those years ago.

[Ardyn’s past criticisms of the young man’s eagerness to help all those around him, unabashedly and enthusiastically, perhaps has more context now.]