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"Don't send another convoy. Do not send Tronovians to Midori on my behalf."
"Shaye – "
"Please," I beg, my bottom lip trembles. "Please do not send your men and women to die. My parents won't accept the truth that I want to be here, and Bastian certainly won't rest until I'm returned to Midori. Neither party will negotiate nor take your letters as factual, so, please, don't send another convoy. If I need to, I'll go myself – "
"You will do nothing of the kind," his voice is more forceful than I'm used to, and it causes me to shut my mouth. "Listen to me, Ilaria Shaye Kitarni," he leans forward, rooting his elbows to the table. "If you are to be queen one day, you need to understand that people, whether you want them to or not, will die on your behalf. That is the way of kings. Some kingdoms will treat you with respect, others will not. Will you bear the guilt of your people dying? Yes. Will you send more into battle to protect your kingdom as a whole? Yes. It's not fair, and it's certainly not enjoyable, but one thing you must never do, is shrink in the face of adversity. You must never dull your shine for the acceptance of others."
"Is that why you can barely look me in the eye?" I ask, and he recoils.
"What do you mean?"
"You might be sitting across the table from me, but your mind is far from here. Does it have to do with the fact you can't seem to hold my gaze for long? Do you blame me for the deaths of your people?"
"My dear, I do not blame you for – "
"The truth," I interrupt, and watch as his shoulders dip.
A deep, anguished sigh escapes his lips. Silently, he rubs his fingers across the crinkle marring his forehead. "Shaye, I do not blame you. Their deaths belong to your parents, namely your father and possibly Bastian, but not you. The reason I have not been myself is because my wife has been sick for quite some time. She's always had a weaker disposition, but this is something else."
Shame seeps through my entire body. The audacity of believing I was the source of his worry –
"I'm so sorry," I manage to croak out. "I had no idea."
"Not many people know," he explains quickly. "Our marriage was arranged, you know."
"By your father?"
He shakes his head with a smile. "Me."
"You?" I furrow my brow. "Forgive me, but how can you arrange your own marriage? Unless you secretly courted her – "
He waves a hand in the air, cutting me off. "No, no, it was nothing like that. My father wanted me to marry the daughter of one of the wealthiest Tronovians on his small council. I thought it would be a better show of unity if I married a commoner. Someone without a title, no rank, no fortune. Just an average Tronovian citizen to show our people that no matter their economic status, color of their skin, or ancestral background, that we all matter. We are all equals."
"From what I've heard of your father, I don't imagine he took too kindly to that notion."
"He did not." He chuckles softly, but I can sense the painful wound he still nurses. "After he died," he swallows, "I went through with my plan. I had all eligible women throughout the kingdom come to Starnborough and I had one conversation with each of them."
"And that's how you determined who you would marry?" I ask in bewilderment. "What could one conversation tell you about someone's character?"
"I asked them all one very important question."
"Which was?"
"What do you believe to be the crown's most egregious error?" He shrugs with a smile. "A tricky question to be sure. All but one told me that the crown never makes mistakes."
"Your wife?"
"Esme was the only one who was honest with me." Tilting his head to the side, he searches my features before saying, "I think that's why I took to you so quickly. You stood up to me. You were honest with me and had no problem calling me out. Esme is the same way. She doesn't treat me any differently than she would you or a school teacher or fisherman. She truly sees everyone as equals and that's when I knew I could be happy with her."
"Wow," I whisper, taking a long sip of my lukewarm tea. "I've never heard a story like that."
"I dare say, you might not ever again. I was unconventional when it came to marriage, but it's worked for me."
The thought hits me again that he said his wife was ill. "How long does she have?"
His bloodshot eyes meet mine as a single tear slips down his cheek. "She may have until the end of the year, if she's lucky."
"Your Majesty." A soldier bows before coming through the door onto the patio and hands King Soren a rolled-up missive. The king's eyes scan each word at a rapid pace before he re-rolls it and slips it in his jacket pocket.
