The palace was restless. Servants rushed back and forth through the polished marble halls, carrying fabrics, polishing silver, and arranging flowers. They were all busy with the preparations for the Crown Prince's birthday ball that was getting near. They all knew mistakes weren't allowed. They had a lot of things to do. What colour of curtains to choose? What candle design?
Caspian, however, looked less like a birthday boy and more like an overworked minister. His desk was buried under scrolls, sealed documents, and invitations. His blonde hair was tied loosely, a few strands falling over his eyes as he scribbled his signature for the hundredth time. His hand ached. His patience too.
Across the desk, Darien was groaning so loudly that Caspian wanted to throw the ink pot at him. It was as if he were purposely calling out to Caspian to catch his attention.
Darien dropped his quill and collapsed forward onto the parchment.
