[Jezebel's eyes grow skittish because he knows this, he knows this feeling. This has happened before, men with other faces touching him freely and making beautiful, violent promises into his ear. Leaning in too close, trailing fingers through his hair and over his face and discussing all the blood they'd spill. And he remembers what followed each time it happened, and how it was never the lovely dreams they'd so viciously promised.

In death he does what he did in life, and he stays still and frozen.]

You might not go back. You might not have to take any throne.