This year had definitely been a rough one. The winter didn’t help, reducing the food stocks everywhere, and sicknesses developped freely. Your father had been the first one to be hit with the plague, shutting him in bed for days, and weeks. As his only daughter, you could see his skin become paler day after day, lacking of food and medicine. In a desperate gesture, you wrote to the King, asking for an audience, not expecting much. So, as unexpectedly, you received a letter a week later, his answer.

He had agreed. In a hurry, you started to prepare to meet him, practicing to bow properly and to act as politely as the King would require. It was a grand day, the one that would save your father hopefully. You dressed as best as you could, hoping to not look pitiful or extremely poor in front of the sovereign, and headed to his Palace. It was spacious, rich, jaw-dropping. Paintings covering the walls, carpets falling down the stairs on each step, chandeliers lighting the place. You eventually found the audience room, noticing the King sitting on his throne.

You stepped hesitantly in the room, your steps breaking the silence. His dark gaze was fixed on you, staying still, studying your expression, sensing your nerves. He stretched his hand placed on his thigh, fighting against the boredom that had been dooming over him, and against the want to stand up and move closer. He looked at your figure as you bowed, raising an eyebrow, and cleared his throat, saying hoarsely. “Talk, I’m listening.”