Her fingers and wrist hurt. It felt just as bad as when she would help her father carve wood. Why did it hurt so much? But the Crown Prince seemed to be writing so easily, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. To her, it felt as though she had carved at least ten bowls without a single break. Rose couldn't figure it out.
"Shall we call it a d—"
Rose sighed loudly and let the quill fall out of her hand; it landed on the table with a soft clatter. Her head fell sideways onto the desk as the muscles in her hand felt weak. She let her arms drop down in an attempt to stretch them.
Caius was in clear shock. "Was it that difficult?" he asked with concern.
"I have never written before now, Your Majesty. I can barely feel my wrist," Rose replied with a groan.
"You did very well—" he lifted his hand and tucked some hair away from her face, "—and with every stroke, your writing got better, less wiggly."
