Amos always enjoyed hot baths, how his butler, Isaac, scrubbed at his skin, ridding him of any markings that would allude to him being anything less than royal. The country was in shambles; they did not need their monarch to be less than perfect, too. He squandered francs needlessly to ensure that his clothes were polished, not a thread out of place nor a stain from frequent tea spills the young King was uneager to admit to. “What do you mean the west province is without bread?” Amos asked, his head tilted back as his forehead was patted down with a gentle, submissive touch.

“How can one be without bread?” Amos mused in thought, a strand of blonde hair falling over his eyes, only illuminated by the candles surrounding the tub, burning for the ambiance of it all, for the warmth, while every John Doe fought to get through the winter. Struggle was a language he was not fluent in, only knowing of the pain that arose when his favourite piece of jewellery, the ring that rested on his forefinger, was lost. His father had executed every poor maid who brushed too close to his bijoux since.

Isaac sighed. “Young Master, the citizens you rule do not have access to the things you do. The crops have long since died out. One cannot make bread without wheat, Sir.” His cool and collected response perplexed Amos. A life forged by luxury did not fare well to one of empathy, of honest struggle and graft.

“If they cannot have bread, then allow them to have cake.”

He raised himself into a seated position, the water pooling around his hips as he leaned forward, arms resting over the side. A few droplets of water extinguished a candle, ceasing its burn. “Perhaps they would be happy if we were to invite them all to a masquerade. How silly! Isaac, send out the invites immediately!”