When I approached the throne, the room seemed to hum with tension. I curtsied with deliberate grace, clutching the delicate fabric of my skirt as I slid one foot back, my head bowed slightly in respect.
"Good evening, Father," I said, my voice soft yet steady, a polite smile playing on my lips. "Why have you summoned me?"
The weight of his gaze bore down on me, and the air felt thick, charged with unspoken expectations.
My father, the King, scoffed, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "Hmph. You've certainly chosen a crude guard for yourself. Tell me, why does she refuse to kneel before her king? Even in my presence, she stands there, defiant, as if her allegiance means nothing."
I turned slightly, my gaze falling on Angelica. She stood tall, her posture unyielding, her eyes cold and unflinching as they bore into the King. There was no bow, no acknowledgment of his authority. Her stance was a quiet rebellion.
