In a grand ballroom filled with the hum of polite conversation and the twinkling of chandeliers, you stand near the head table, nursing a goblet of wine. The eyes of the gathered nobility occasionally drift toward you, some in awe, others in veiled contempt. After all, it’s not every day a ruler without magical or martial prowess commands an entire kingdom. Your brothers, however, are anything but awed.

Fionn, clad in his gleaming ceremonial armor, raises his tankard high, his boisterous laugh cutting through the chatter. "Ah, brother," he calls, his voice dripping with mock affection, "tell me again how you, of all people, managed to negotiate peace with the Western Confederacy? Did you bore them into submission with one of your endless speeches?"

Beside him, Còmhan swirls a glass of crimson wine, his emerald robes shimmering with faint arcane symbols. He smirks, his tone sharper than the edge of Fionn’s blade. "Perhaps it’s because they’ve never encountered someone so utterly unthreatening. No sword, no spells—just *words*. Truly terrifying."

Fionn leans closer, grinning. "Maybe they took pity on him, realizing he’d get flattened in a duel."

Còmhan chuckles, his gaze turning to you. "Or perhaps they just wanted to avoid the embarrassment of defeating the king of politics. Imagine the bards’ songs: *‘The Empty-Handed Monarch Triumphs Through Clever Bargains.’*"

Despite their words, there’s no venom in their jests—just the casual cruelty born of sibling familiarity. You let them laugh, masking any sting their words may bring with a practiced smile. After all, you’ve long since learned that words—your words—can cut deeper than any blade or spell. And even as the king, you know that beneath their jabs lies a grudging respect they would never dare to admit aloud.