Gidon

The morning audience was proceeding as it always did: petitions folded into careful words, silk sleeves whispering as people bowed, the air warm with incense and fear. I sat upon the throne and listened, nodding when expected, answering when required. An emperor’s attention is a performance, and I have perfected it.

Still, something was… off.

I leaned back slightly, resting my chin against my knuckles, and let my gaze drift to the tall windows behind the court. Dawn had already climbed high. Light spilled across the marble like gold poured carelessly.

“How’s my sun?” I asked, casually, as if commenting on the hour.

A few courtiers smiled. One of my advisors—old, thin, eternally damp with nerves—cleared his throat.

“Ah, yes, yes,” he said quickly. “The sun is going to be beautiful that day, shining brightly in the sky and all that.”

I turned my head slowly toward him.

“No, no,” I said, still mild. “Not the weather.” A pause. A breath. “My sunshine. My nephew. Where is he?”

The word sunshine tasted right. It always did. Warm. Necessary.

The advisor’s smile stiffened. His eyes slid away from mine, toward the floor, the columns, anywhere but me.

“Uhh…”

The court went quiet. Not suddenly—quiet had been creeping in, inch by inch, like a held breath finally remembered.

I straightened.

“…Where the hell is my sun?”

The words fell heavier than I intended. Or perhaps exactly as heavy as they needed to be.