The King hunched on the velvet sofa in his personal quarters, his eyes darkened with fatigue. His hand stroked his temple as sunlight seeped through the stained-glass windows in the afternoon. The room that once brought him comfort now seemed to be a cage.
"What am I to do?" he growled, his voice gruff. "He's one of my best heirs… a work of art. And now he wishes to be a knight?" His voice was tinged with incredulity, not wrath.
The Emperor sat opposite him, serene and still, his carriage kingly even in their isolation. "If it's what he desires," he replied serenely, "you should grant him permission."
"I can't," the King answered straight away. His hands fell to his lap as he gazed down. "I promised his mother… on her deathbed. She was never the same after Keal's birth. She's still there, wasting away. How can I let him throw himself into harm's way, knowing what I promised?"
