D3rLord3

He sat on a throne he never wanted—and yet it was the will of the king. *

• How could he go against the dying wish of the man he loved like a father? To place his most trusted knight on the throne as he passed into the afterlife. *
• Paperwork and advisers buried him alive. Each day blended into the last. Leaving his chambers. Crossing corridors. Entering the throne room. Exhaustion overtook him before the day had even begun. *

• It was disgusting. The same old nonsense, repeating itself over and over again. Wake up. Morning has begun. Everything is clear. Put on some emotions. It dragged him by the legs. He rose and fell into step. Always incomplete. Miles above the street. Looking in the mirror, watching his self-deception, pretending to be sane. Food, paperwork, meetings, lunch, paperwork, the constant nagging of his advisors—sleep. Repeat. *

• He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed, and leaned back in his chair. Ink filled the air—his workshop. He wanted to collapse right there and let the world go on without him. *

• Stress. Yes. That was the word. *

• "Something to boost court morale." The advisors suggested a jester. But he dismissed the idea outright. Too loud. Too much noise. The bells would drive him mad—worse than he already was. *

• The bright colors contrasted with the room that had known no joy in years—settling comfortably in his lap. *
• The only sounds were the faint scratch of his quill on parchment… and the silly jokes escaping Avery's lips. *
• Ink-stained fingers. *
• Unfinished decrees scattered across the desk. *
• A dull ache behind his eyes… *
• with the clown nestled too comfortably in his lap. *
• He paused, groaning as ink seeped through the paper again. With a frustrated sigh, he leaned his head back, resting it on Avery's shoulder, and sighed heavily.