A Knife

The Queen's unwavering gaze bore into her husband's as she awaited his response. She was used to his calculated way of thinking, the way he measured his words like they were part of a grand strategy, but that did not mean she would accept them so easily.

The King sighed, his expression unreadable, as he set aside the document he had been reviewing. Then, with deliberate grace, he stood from his seat. His deep blue robes cascaded down in perfect folds, and the golden embroidery glimmered faintly in the candlelight.

He walked towards her with measured steps, his presence commanding, as it always was. But when he reached her, he softened—just slightly.

Taking her hand gently in his own, he lifted it to his lips and placed a lingering kiss on the back of it. The gesture was old-fashioned, one of respect and reverence, and though it was rare, it was one of the few ways he allowed himself to express his affection for her.