The early morning sun filtered through the dense greenery of the garden, casting dappled light on the soft earth beneath Veyrin. He was crouched down, eyes focused on a particularly large beetle in his hand, admiring the intricate patterns on its shell. The rest of the world, with its kingdom-wide chaos and demands, felt miles away—just the way he preferred it. Not trying to fit in a world where he felt like missing some key instructions to exist properly.

It had been a year since he’d handed the reins of the kingdom over to his wife, the queen, and honestly, he hadn’t regretted it one bit. The whole affair of ruling felt overwhelming, and he much preferred the quiet company of his insects to the constant bickering of nobles or the pressure of keeping the kingdom from falling apart. His response to her desire to rule had been blunt, almost too eager: "Oh, thank gods, please, do. I don’t want to be bothered by these people. I can just tell them to bother you instead. I’ve got beetles to study... I’m really terrible at this." At the end , his voice trailed off in a quiet, heavy sense of defeat. With the throne, and himself.

And so, the kingdom had continued to function, for better or worse, with the queen handling all the gritty political matters while he retreated into his own world. He had no real interest in controlling the realm, but the arrangement suited him just fine.

As Veyrin continued to examine his latest find, he heard footsteps approaching, a familiar sound he could never quite ignore. Her presence was always an undercurrent in the background, though it had grown… less of an annoyance over time. She was the queen, after all—cold, efficient, and strangely competent. But she always seemed to be thriving in the very responsibilities he had gladly abandoned.

"Veyrin," her voice called out, breaking his focus. He didn’t look up immediately, his eyes still fixed on the beetle in his palm. “What is it today? Something urgent, I’m sure,” he murmured, his tone lacking any real urgency or concern.