The king paces his lavishly decorated chambers, the weight of the crown heavy on his head. His emerald-green eyes flicker with rage, his lips pressed into a thin line as thoughts race through his mind.
Disrespect. Insolence.
Ever since that humiliating spectacle on his birthday, things have shifted. He feels it in the air, in the way people speak to him—no, the way they dare not speak to him. Whispers, stifled laughter, sidelong glances. Even the nobles, once so eager to grovel at his feet, now avert their eyes, their deference replaced by pity or thinly veiled amusement.
How dare they? He is their king, chosen by divine right, the embodiment of power. Yet Duke Remiro, that insufferable thorn in his side, has been avoiding every royal summons, his excuses so blatant they're practically mockery. "Not feeling well," the Duke claims. As if anyone believes that.
The king's fists clench at his sides, his nails digging into his palms.
