The Crown Prince knows exactly how to test my patience. I can feel the irritation bubbling beneath my skin as I motion for a servant to bring the gifts I've prepared. His father's birthday is always a charade of sycophantic praise and hollow gestures, but I am obligated to play my part. The servant approaches, carefully holding the two offerings.
"My gift to His Majesty is this moonsteel blade," I say, unsheathing the sword from its ornate scabbard. The king's eyes brighten immediately, like a child presented with a new toy. I hide my distaste behind a practiced expression. Of course, he would be fascinated by it. The man has an insatiable appetite for the stories of legendary warriors and their fabled weapons. Anything remotely linked to heroism excites him. At one point, I was his prized hero, sent to the frontlines time and time again like a tool to bring glory to the crown.
