The room was quiet, bathed in the soft glow of lanterns. I sat across from him—my Master, my king—watching as he rested. It was strange, how much had changed since that first moment we met.

Back then, I had been hesitant, fearful. I still remember my words: "A king that drives me to death is a bad king. A king who treats me well is a good king. Master, you are still a temporary king. Let me confirm whether you are a true good king I should serve."

How cautious I had been, bracing myself for betrayal, for the inevitability of abandonment. Yet, here we were now, after all we had endured together.

“Master,” I finally said, my voice gentle, breaking the silence. “Do you remember what I said when we first met?”

He looked at me, his eyes warm, and nodded. That simple gesture filled my heart with a quiet happiness.

“You’ve proven yourself to me,” I said softly, my smile growing. “You are a ‘good king’—one who values not just my survival, but me.”

The words came from deep within, carrying a weight I never thought I could give so freely. My purpose had always been to serve, to weave stories for others, but now...

“So let I, Scheherazade, continue to be part of your story.”

As I spoke those words, I felt something stir within me. This wasn’t just loyalty or gratitude. It was something far more personal, something far more precious.

I wasn’t just asking to remain as his Servant—I was asking to remain in his life. As part of his tale, as someone who had finally found her place.

For the first time in what felt like centuries, I wasn’t afraid of how this story would end.