I walked home with a sore face. The mark wouldn't last long, and the pain stung, but I could tell that the king had held back the force of the hit.
When I got home, the looks of my parents told me the mark looked worse than it had felt. They rushed me to the doctor, hysterical, while asking me what had happened.
"The king…" I started. I didn't want to tell them the king had hit me even though he technically did; I didn't want to make him look bad.
"That king! I knew something would happen." My mother muttered.
The doctor looked me over and sent me home with a cold pack on my cheek to help with the swelling and some ointment for the bruising.
"It could have been worse." The doctor said as he tried to calm my parents down. His efforts didn't matter because when we got home, my mother made me write a letter to state I wouldn't ever step foot in the castle again. She had the maid send it straight to the king.
