A tremor wracks your frame as the enormity of your sins settles in your gut like a leaden weight. You collapse to your knees, hands only moving in time to catch yourself from smacking upon the cobblestones. The Princess is right—no boons of longevity or promises of eternal union could ever atone for the metaphysical trauma your actions inflicted upon her very essence. You don't just stand accused of abandoning a lover. No, your sin cuts far deeper—maiming the very Spirit of Night itself in ways mortal psyches could scarcely conceive. With your thoughtless exodus, you inflicted a metaphysical trauma beyond quantifying.