"Thank you, I'm fine, it's no big deal, just that I have to... damn it, this chair was custom made not long ago..."
Thales gripped Miranda's hand and, using her as leverage, struggled to get up from the broken chair.
Miranda quietly looked at the boy—now perhaps more a youth—watching him with an expressive face, embarrassingly fumbling with the collapsed chair.
It reminded her of the temple of Bright Moon seven years ago, of the little boy who, covered in filth and standing on a wooden crate, still waved his youthful fists, bawling, "Are you coming or not?"
Miranda couldn't help but curl the corners of her lips up.
"Alright, I give up, next time I'll have to find a different carpenter..." After a bout of frantic scrambling, Thales could only helplessly raise his hands, signaling the chair's untimely demise.
As the young Duke looked up, Miranda's smile vanished:
"Now, Your Highness, can we get back to the main point?"
The main point.
