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‘Imagine me a king.’ ‘You are a king.’ He blinked at that. He had been so fixed on his shortcomings it had never occurred she might be fixed on her own. That thought, as the misery of others often can, made him feel just a little better.
A screech shrill as a cock dropped on a cook slab.
When a wise minister has nothing but enemies, she beats one with a worse.
First they would argue their case, then settle to stating their position with ever more certainty, and finally to a contest of scornful grunting.
Ankran softly cleared his throat. ‘That would explain your shitty cooking.’
And he realized then that he had not lost all those times in the training square because he lacked the skill, or the strength, or even a hand. He had lacked the will.
He was the King of Gettland, after all, was he not? He had knelt enough.
