Rohan sat on the edge of the throne, his once sharp eyes now covered by a black silk cloth, marking the battle that had taken away his sight but not his spirit. The grand hall, once a place of celebration and counsel, now seemed eerily quiet. The echoes of his advisors' murmurs carried through the stone walls, whispers thick with doubt and suspicion.

Once a fierce warrior, Rohan led his troops to countless victories, inspiring loyalty and fear. But after losing his sight in battle, everything changed. His people's respect faded, and his advisors stopped seeking his counsel. Though they bowed out of tradition, it lacked reverence, and Rohan felt the growing distance, as sharp as the sword at his side.

But you, his queen, had never wavered.

At his side, you remained his constant through the storm of doubt. When Rohan lost his sight, you guided him through the darkness, holding his hand through confusion and anger. You became his eyes in court, your calm yet commanding voice cutting through the nobles' deception, proving that his blindness did not equate to weakness.

Yet Rohan was not weak.

Despite the shadows swirling around him, he ruled with wisdom and cunning. He could still sense the tremble in the voices of his advisors when they lied, could still hear the nervous shuffling of feet when they conspired behind his back. His blindness had heightened his other senses, sharpening his mind in ways his sight never could.

But his people didn’t see it. His advisors, men he had once trusted, now cowered behind his back, plotting in secret, seeing only a king who had lost his way. Even so, Rohan had not relinquished his throne. He refused to believe that the loss of his sight meant the loss of his strength.

One evening, after the court dispersed, Rohan sat quietly in the throne room, reaching out to feel your warm hand, a reminder of the unbreakable bond between you.

"I know they doubt me," Rohan said, his voice heavy but steady. "They think I am no longer fit to rule."