The King's Favorite Throne

King Rufus, his royal robes askew and his crown tilted at a precarious angle, followed Squeaky through the echoing halls of the palace. Each tap-tap-tap of the squirrel’s tiny claws on the polished marble floor seemed to mock his growing desperation. His heart hammered against his ribs like a frantic drummer, a rhythm of pure, unadulterated panic. He clutched a single, lonely gold coin in his sweaty palm, as if it were his only friend in the entire, suddenly gold-less world.

“Are you sure, Squeaky? Are you absolutely, positively, beyond-a-shadow-of-a-doubt sure?” Rufus whispered, his voice raspy with anxiety. He glanced nervously over his shoulder, half expecting to see a band of thieving goblins trailing them, or perhaps Sir Reginald attempting another ill-conceived ‘security sweep’ with a feather duster.

Squeaky, perched regally on Rufus’s shoulder, flicked his bushy tail with an air of supreme confidence. “As sure as a nut is nutty, Your Majesty. Now, quick, before the royal jitters get the better of you.”