Chapter 277
Velesia
I watch from the shadows as His Highness—no, His Majesty—works straight into the night. Again.
The scratch of his pen, the soft sigh as he sets one finished document aside and pulls another forward, the faint scent of ink and midnight oil.
He is as he has always been since the crown settled on his brow: diligent, weary, bearing the weight without complaint.
I can tell he will be a wonderful king. Not because he desires glory, but because he understands duty. And I will be with him every step of the way, a silent promise etched in my bones, for as long as I am alive.
"Velesia."
I flinch, a tiny, involuntary jerk in the darkness. My presence is meant to be unseen, unfelt—a specter of protection. Being acknowledged feels like a failure of my purpose.
Reluctantly, I step out from the deep shadow of the bookshelf into the pool of warm lamplight. The light feels too exposing.
