The King's Decree

King Theron’s chambers hummed with an air of decisive finality. The polished mahogany of the grand table gleamed under the light of a dozen beeswax candles, each flame casting dancing shadows that seemed to echo the unease fluttering in Princess Althea’s chest. Her father, King Theron, sat at the head of the table, his brow furrowed in concentration as he perused a scroll unfurled before him. Queen Lyra, her mother, sat beside him, her usual gentle demeanor tinged with a subtle apprehension. Althea, positioned on her father’s right, felt like a gilded ornament, meant to be admired and displayed, not consulted.

“The arrangements for Prince Valerius’s arrival are proceeding apace,” King Theron announced, his voice resonating with the authority of years spent ruling. He tapped a finger on the parchment. “His retinue will require ample accommodation, and the feast must be of a scale befitting our kingdom’s prestige. We must impress upon him the strength of our alliance.”

Althea’s gaze flickered to the heavy velvet curtains that concealed the casement windows. Beyond them lay the vast, star-dusted expanse of the night sky, and she imagined the cool, unfettered freedom of the ocean that lay even further beyond. The thought of Prince Valerius, a man she barely knew, whose presence felt like a suffocating shroud, made her stomach clench.