The soles of Cassander's boots must be a few layers shorter just from how much he's been wandering the room. Perhaps he was a bumblebee in a past life, buzzing from left to right with no sense. His blonde locks certainly look it.

"It is... a great honour— No, words cannot describe how honoured I feel— Is honour even the best word?" The future king bickers with himself in a way no one of the same title should. In his opinion, at least. This is his seventh revision of the same speech. Anthemion would have chewed his head off for wasting so much paper.

Yes, there were still three months until his coronation. Three months too little. Gods, could his father age slower? Be a little more stubborn about keeping his title? Just until Cassander learns enough. All that he still hasn't in his twenty-nine years.

He is not only to become father of the country, but a father to a life. That in two months, not three. And there is no speech he can practice for that occasion.

Though the thought of someone in twenty years doing the same he is now, with the same worries, brings him some comfort. Understanding maybe.

"Perhaps draft number eight will be the right one." Cassander says while reviewing the inked pages in his hands. "How disheartening that we cannot have second chances at parenthood as well." He mutters in a joking manner, shaking his head at himself for even thinking it.