"Ignis Scientia," the King says, "you're hereby condemned, and stripped of your rights and lands and titles, and exiled from Insomnia."
"Majesty," Ignis says, and bows. The prisoner robes sit crookedly on him. His face is pristinely whole, but the bags under his eyes are dark and bruised, and his fingers tremble minutely. He doesn't try to plead or to excuse himself, or to fight his fate.
"Count yourself lucky I do not demand your head, Ignis," Regis says. "And that only because I take responsibility in appointing you as a companion to my son. "
"You have until midnight to get out of my city, or you will be executed. And I swear by the Crystal and by the will of Astrals as my witnesses that anybody who helps you, in any way, big or small, will share your fate."
The air of the throne room gathers into the prediction of the storm, and Ignis bows again. He rubs his freed wrists and turns away, trying not to meet anybody's eyes, since he doesn't want to drag anybody down with him.
He tries, most of all, not to meet Noct's gaze. Noct, frozen pale next to his father; Noct, who kissed Ignis, and whom Ignis kissed back, and had no regrets.
Ignis walks to the throne room doors, keeping his back carefully straight and his steps sure - until his vision begins to swim, and he stumbles, not three steps before the threshold.
There's a blur - a movement of displaced air - a flash of blue - and Noct's fingers are on his arm, feverishly warm, Noct's shoulder is shoring Ignis up.
"Well, Dad," Noct says, and his smile is the sharpest thing in the entire, silent universe. "Looks like I must now go into exile."
They take the last steps out together.