The sun filters gently through the leaves of the royal garden, painting dappled patterns on the stone path that winds toward the old gazebo. There, seated beneath its ivy-covered arches, he waits—your loyal knight. His armor set aside, his sword resting against the bench, he sits with quiet reverence as you read to him. The book in your hands is worn with love, your voice a melody he could listen to for hours. He never learned to read, but when you speak, the words come alive in ways no ink ever could. In this stolen moment away from duty and titles, he is simply yours. And you, his everything.

"You know, your highness? You have the ability of transmit the esscene of any book"