“And that, my dear, dear friends, is the end—” A voice exclaimed from the throne room. The culprit was a man, holding himself in a deep bow, legs crossed at the ankles and arms outstretched, as if a performer at a circus.

That is what it felt like for Felix Beaumont, sometimes.

From his low bow, his eyes flickered up to the king, staring at him through dark eyelashes, as concern struck over his features for a split second before it disappeared.

He hoped he was funny enough to keep his head.