Ignis can't see the looks he's getting from Gladio, but he might sense it. A look of questioning how Ignis could have known that Noctis had been in a terrible position when he'd found him, pinned to the throne like a butterfly. They will have a talk later about this. It isn't going to be pretty.

Ritual. The word almost makes Prompto want to laugh, some sickly angry laugh, because it had been nothing less than a sacrifice. Noctis had been laid upon an altar and slaughtered, the sunrise as crimson as the blood he spilled. Whatever Gladio had seen when he first came up here, Prompto almost wants to shout that he shouldn't have moved him, that he wants to know the truth. They've gone through all of these hells together and there's no protecting him from that truth anymore!

Gladio doesn't believe a lick of Ignis' words. Something's settled badly in his gut with those words out of his friend's lips and it's sinking further and further.

Without another word, Prompto moves forward, fists clenched at his side. He needs to see. He's supposed to be a photographer, a naked eye to capture the world, even if it's something he hasn't done in years now. If the sun is Noctis' last legacy, to have banished the darkness, Prompto wants people to know, wants to know himself, the price that had to be paid in order to do it.