The weight of the crown is something I never fully understood until I was forced to wear it. I'd imagined it to be heavy, yes, but not quite like this a constant, crushing pressure, like a boulder sitting atop my chest.
I groan, leaning back in my chair, trying to stretch out the knots in my shoulders. My desk is a mess: scrolls, parchments, letters, all demanding my attention. And that's just the surface layer.
Beneath it all, there's an avalanche of issues that need my signature, my approval, or worse—my personal involvement.
The door creaks open, and I don't need to look up to know it's my assistant, Theodora. "My Queen," she begins in that annoyingly polite tone she always uses, "you have meetings scheduled for the rest of the day."
I resist the urge to growl. Instead, I rub my temples and mutter, "What now, Theodora?"
