The sound of cicadas filled the air, making a dry, rhythmic buzzing sound like a constant reminder of that summer without any pns.

  Charlotte walked half a step behind me now, her grip loosened. She hadn't said a word since we escaped the maze. She was probably still recovering from the humiliation.

  As we approached, the two knights stepped forward and silently opened the carved doors.

  I let Charlotte walk in front of me because I have no idea where the king's room is. She looked at me and raised an eyebrow as if I put her in an awkward position, but brushed it off with a head shake.

  We climbed up the central stairway and turned right.

  There was a room different from the others because of the intricate design on the wooden door. It must be the king's room.

  Charlotte softly knocked on the door, but the sound was clear and resonant.

  "Please come in." Said someone inside.

  Charlotte pushed the door open slowly.

  The scent hit me first: an odd mix of incense, old wood, and something faintly medicinal. The room was dim, lit only by the sunlight filtering through heavy curtains and the flicker of a single oil mp on the far table.

  The King y in a massive four-poster bed at the center, wrapped in deep, bulky bandages. He looked... frail. Not at all the towering figure I imagined a monarch to be. His beard was golden, but his face had grown pale, lined with pain and age.

  His eyes opened slowly, and for a second, I wondered if he recognized me.

  “Fabien,” he said, voice dry but clear. “You’ve finally come.”

  Charlotte bowed low and stepped aside, leaving me alone in the center of the room, awkward and unsure of how to respond.

  I stepped closer, hesitantly.

  “Uh... Good afternoon... Your Majesty?” I tried.

  He gave a soft chuckle, then coughed. “Still unsure, aren’t you?”

  I opened my mouth but didn’t know what to say.

  "It's alright," he continued. "Seeing me in this pitiful state won't make it easier."

  I stay silent.

  He reached under the bnket and pulled out a small, wooden box. Charlotte stepped forward instinctively, but he raised a weak hand.

  “Charlotte, Dr. Alder,” he said, his voice hoarse but firm, “please leave us. I’d like a word with my son. Alone.”

  The doctor bowed respectfully and quietly exited through a side door, his medical instruments gently clinking as he went. Charlotte hesitated. Her eyes flicked to me, uncertain, but the king met her gaze with that same calm authority.

  “I’ll call when I need you,” he said.

  With a small nod, she curtsied and stepped out, closing the heavy door behind her.

  Silence returned.

  The king took a slow breath and looked at me—really looked at me—for the first time since I entered.

  “You’re not the boy I remember,” he said while chuckling. “You've grown.”

  I didn’t know how to answer. So I stayed quiet, the way you do when your words are too fragile for the air.

  He pced the box on the bnket between us.

  “I’m dying, Fabien. We both know that. But what comes next... what you must face... that’s what truly frightens me.”

  He opened his eyes. They were tired, but sharp.

  “I wanted more time to prepare you,” he said, his fingers brushing the ring box. “But the crown cannot wait. And neither will the enemies.”

  “You must find allies you trust, and never show all your cards. Even in peace, a king walks among knives.”

  He nodded toward the box again.

  “Open it,” he said.

  I hesitated, then reached out and flipped the tch. The lid creaked as it opened, revealing a red velvet lining... and resting in the center—

  —a signet ring.

  He took it out and pced it into my palm. The signet ring caught the dim light and gleamed faintly.

  “It’s time you had this,” he said.

  I stared at the ring. Thick and gold, shaped like a coiled serpent biting its own tail. The royal seal of Eryndor was carved into the face: a lion beneath a crescent moon, circled by runes I couldn’t read.

  “It belonged to my father,” the king said. “And his father before him.”

  He paused, catching his breath. “It’s not just for show. This ring grants you access to the Royal Archives—sealed documents, war records, private letters... things the council isn’t meant to see.”

  I looked at it again. Somehow, it felt heavier now.

  He nodded toward the box. “Wear it, but don’t funt it. Some people would kill you just to know what’s inside that vault.”

  A long silence followed. One of those where time feels frozen.

  Then he looked at me again, softer now.

  “I tried to shield you from this world,” he said. “But now I can only warn you: the crown isn’t the real weight... it’s the eyes watching who wears it.”

  His hands were trembling like if giving me the ring was his biggest mistake.

  “Now go,” he said softly. “Let me have my final moments alone.”

  "...Farewell."

  I wanted to say more. To ask what kind of king he hoped I’d become. To ask how not to mess it all up. But all I did was stand there for a second too long... then leave.

  The door clicked shut behind me.

  That was the st time I saw him.

  The funeral was fast, formal, and full of people who’d barely looked the King in the eyes while he lived. Half the nobles were already whispering about the nd, succession, and council seats even before the incense finished burning.

  A few days ter, they crowned me.

  The Coronation Hall was packed. Ornate stained gss, rows of nobles in velvet and jewels, high-ranking knights in polished armor, and at the center of it all: me, sitting on a too big of a throne with my knees locked like a kid in his father’s chair.

  Church music echoed across the room, all dramatic and holy, while the pape (a wrinkled man who smelled like cloves and candlewax) walked down the red carpet carrying the crown like it was holy fire.

  I thought the thing would just rest on my head. It didn’t. It pressed down, heavy, awkward, like a prison specially made for me.

  Around me, nobles smiled.

  Not with pride, but with calcution.

  Even the pope didn’t look at me like a real king. More like a step in someone else’s pn.

  And that’s when it hit me.

  Why do I feel like the only one who doesn’t belong here?

  Why does this feel less like a coronation... and more like a trap?

  I scanned the crowd again. The same smiles. Cold eyes. Perfect bows.

  Am I... royally fucked?