The morning light filtered through the shutters in soft golden streaks, illuminating the edge of the sheets and the curve of her bare shoulder. Her leg was tangled over mine, and her breath was warm against my neck. Seraphina’s hair, wild from sleep, spilled across my chest in curls that carried the faint scent of lavender and something uniquely hers.

  My arm was already around her, hand resting low, fingers splayed across the curve of her back. I let my palm drift lower, caressing the soft arc of her backside. She shifted closer, sighing. I closed my eyes for just a moment, letting the rhythm of her breathing ground me.

  “You awake?” I murmured.

  She groaned into my collarbone. “I am now.”

  “You looked good last night,” I said. “Wore that dress like it was made for you.”

  “And you wore that jacket like it didn’t itch,” she said, propping herself up with a smirk. “But I’m starving, and you’re buying.”

  We cleaned up, dressed, and headed to the Guild Forges. The smell of ash and oil hit us as we entered through the main doors. Inside, the other smiths gathered near the benches, laughing and munching warm pastries—probably Mark’s doing. He lifted a half-eaten one in a toast as we arrived.

  “Morning, Earl and Lady Robertson,” he said with a grin.

  “Keep that up and you’re cleaning the privy,” I shot back, and the room chuckled.

  I went to the inbox and started pulling out request slips, sorting them swiftly. Each smith received a task, and a rhythm settled in. Steel sang under hammers, and fire blossomed.

  Not long after, the forge’s heavy door creaked open.

  Three figures entered, casting sharp silhouettes against the morning light streaming in from the hall. Leading them was the mage from the King’s ball—the same one who had watched me over his goblet with keen interest and asked too few questions to be insignificant. He wore the same simple robes, layered in storm-gray and silver, with edges embroidered in shimmering thread that caught the light as he moved. His gaze scanned the forge floor like a measuring tool, until it settled on me.

  “Master Smith Robertson,” he said, voice even. “A pleasure to finally meet again.” He stepped forward and offered a slight bow. I returned it, cautious but polite. Seraphina stayed just behind my shoulder.

  “I am Arlen Vael, Royal Arch Mage. We talked during the King’s ball last night,” the man said, gesturing to himself, before turning to the others. “Allow me to introduce my colleagues. Scholar Merren Valis is our researcher of arcane alloys and historical metallurgy.” He motioned to the woman beside him.

  She gave a brief nod, her eyes already scanning the forge as if it were a puzzle to solve. Her satchel shifted as she moved, revealing the gleam of alchemic vials tucked into custom-fitted loops.

  “Good to meet you,” she said. Her voice was calm but clipped, her eyes sharp. “I’ve heard your work is… unconventional.”

  “I prefer effective,” I replied with a small smile.

  Vael smirked and then gestured toward the tall man with the etched staff. “And this is Magister Renic Thorne—arcane security and containment. He makes sure none of us get reduced to ash by something too clever for its own good.”

  Renic’s beard twitched with a restrained grin. “My pleasure to meet you, Earl Robertson.”

  The intensity of their presence was unmistakable. They weren’t just here to watch; they were assessing, judging, and if I wasn’t careful, recording everything I did.

  Well,” I said, turning back toward the forge. “You came to see how Mithril worked. Let’s see if I can give you something worth writing down. You came this far,” I said, wiping my hands on a rag. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

  Before I could move, Seraphina was already at the kettle, her sleeves rolled up. She came back a moment later with a tray holding three steaming cups, a small bowl of sugar, and a plate of fresh honey biscuits.

  “Tea?” she asked. “Or something stronger?”

  The three of them blinked simultaneously, visibly surprised.

  The woman hesitated before accepting a cup with both hands. “Thank you, my lady.”

  The man with the staff gave a slight bow. “It’s rare… to be greeted like this. We usually don’t get served tea.”

  I turned the page so the sketch was obvious, then looked up to see the tall man with the walking staff studying me, his expression unreadable.

  "How are you going to make this?" he asked, his voice even but edged with curiosity. "From what I know, gold and mithril can't be forged together in a single item. Their structures reject each other."

  I couldn’t help but chuckle. “You’re right. Normally, that’s true.”

  That got their attention. Even the mage tilted his head.

  “But there’s a technique—not rare, but uncommon,” I continued, moving to the bench beside the forge. “My father taught it to me back when I was a kid, though he used copper and silver. It’s called Mokume Gane.”

  The Scholar Valis’s brow lifted, and the man’s grip on his staff loosened slightly.

  “It’s not about brute force. It’s about patience. And precision. A lot of times, it’s also about the setup.”

  By now, the background clanging and hammering had dulled. I looked up to see the other smiths slowly gathering, leaving their stations one by one. They drifted closer, silent, drawn by the scent of something new—or maybe just the tone of someone teaching something worth hearing.

  “I’ve got four lengths of mithril,” I said, laying them out, each one faintly gleaming in the forge’s ambient heat. “And one of gold. The pattern matters. The arrangement matters. For this bracelet, I want the gold thread to snake around the twist, adding a flare to the overall effect.”

  I dipped a cloth in the alcohol and began carefully wiping each piece. “This clears away the oils from handling or grit from the bin. Any contamination will ruin the bond. It has to be pure.” As I worked, I could feel the quiet deepen. Even the forge’s bellows seemed to hush. Once the metals were cleaned, I wrapped them tightly with thin iron wire, cinching them into a uniform billet.

  I looked up at the watching crowd. “Questions?”

  I glanced up from the forge, wiping my hands on the rag tucked at my hip. The bundle of gold and mithril lengths rested in a shallow bed of coals, heat just starting to lick across the surfaces as the forge roared to life.

  The crowd around me had grown thicker—guildsmiths, apprentices, a few guests, and even Mark moved closer. All of them watching as if they weren’t sure whether I was about to create something or set the place on fire.

  I caught their expressions and smirked. “All right,” I said. “I know that look. Go on. My hair is all a mess, isn't it?”

  Everyone had that look that every student has on the first day of school. Confusion. Until one of the journeymen near the front raised a hand, like he was back in school. “Why start with gold in the middle? Wouldn’t it just melt first?”

  I nodded. “That’s the risk, yeah. Gold’s soft. Too hot and it turns to soup. But this technique—mokume gane—it’s not about hammering things into shape. It’s about finesse. Heat control. You’re not just fusing metal; you’re coaxing it into something better.”

  I held up a hand, thumb and forefinger just apart. “Think of it like folding colors into dough. If I keep the heat low enough, long enough, the gold won’t melt—it’ll bond.”

  Another smith crossed his arms, skeptical. “What keeps the layers from splitting when you twist it? Isn’t that what usually happens with different metals?”

  “Normally? Sure,” I said. “But the alcohol I used—that stripped every trace of oil or grit from the surfaces. Nothing left between the layers. Clean contact means a better fusion. Then the wire wrap keeps it tight until the bonds take.”

  I nodded toward the forge. “It’s a balance. Pressure. Heat. Time. You mess up any one of those, and yeah—it falls apart.”

  From the back, an apprentice piped up. “What if it cracks during the twist? You gonna start over?”

  I couldn’t help but grin. “Hopefully not. But if it does, then yeah—I start over. That’s smithing. Doesn’t matter if you’re making horseshoes or a sword fit for a king. If it breaks, you rebuild.”

  Scholar Valis leaned in slightly. “This mokume gane… it’s not native to our traditions. What does it mean?”

  “It’s a term from where I grew up,” I said, adjusting the coals with a careful nudge. “Means ‘wood grain metal.’ When you etch it right, the layers swirl like the rings of a tree. It’s beautiful. And strong.”

  Magister Thorne tilted his head, one hand resting on his staff for balance. “You believe this will work? Gold and mithril have never held together—not in any artifact we’ve recorded.”

  “I do,” I said without hesitation, watching the wrapped bundle begin to darken under the heat. “Because it’s not just about the metal. It’s about intention. You don’t force them to bind—you let them.”

  Silence fell for a beat. The kind that settles when someone’s trying to decide if they’re witnessing foolishness… or something new.

  Then, from the back, one of the younger smiths spoke—quiet, but clear: “Can we try it someday?”

  I looked up. Eyes all around me. Some skeptical, some burning with curiosity, all of them waiting on my answer.

  I gave a small smile. “Not someday,” I said. “Soon. Once I know it’s safe. And once you’re ready to respect what it can do—not just what it’s worth.”

  The forge hissed as the bundle began to glow—slow and steady. The first blush of red blooming like a promise beneath the surface.

  Right then, the front door opened again. The young royal messenger entered, flanked by the same two guards as before. She approached with a familiar nervous energy.

  “My lady,” she said to Seraphina, offering a sealed envelope. “An invitation. Her Majesty requests your presence for afternoon tea.”

  Seraphina raised a brow, then cracked the wax. “Looks like I need to dress up again.”

  “Be careful,” I said. “Those noble women might mistake you for competition.”

  She winked. “Only if they’re smart.”

  David cracked his knuckles and reached for the tongs.

  Seraphina stood to the side near the long workbench, holding a warm cup of tea that had long gone cold. Her gaze swept across the crowd of smiths—grizzled veterans, eager apprentices, and the three royal observers—each drawn forward like moths to a flame. But it wasn’t just the forging that drew them. It was David—the calmness in his voice, the easy authority in his hands, the way he answered every question without pretension, explaining as if everyone there had the right to know what he knew.

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  She realized she was smiling.

  He looked completely at ease, sleeves rolled up, soot smudging his jawline, his movements confident and precise. This wasn’t a noble just pretending at forge work. This was the man she married—doing what he loved and somehow turning it into something that pulled the room around him like gravity.

  When one of the younger smiths asked a question, she noticed the older ones leaning in too, silent, absorbing every word. And David? He didn’t even seem aware of what he was doing.

  She shook her head gently and whispered to herself, “And they think I’m the impressive one.”

  I turned back to the anvil, the bundled strips of mithril and gold now glowing a dull orange in the heart of the forge. The alcohol had long since burned off, carrying away any oils or grime. Clean metal. That was key.

  With my tongs, I lifted the billet and placed it on the anvil. The wire had done its job of keeping the pieces tight. Now, the real challenge began.

  “This next part,” I said, glancing up at the semicircle forming around me, “is heat, pressure, and patience. You don’t smash the metals together. You let them decide they want to become something new.”

  The hammer came down, not hard, but steady. Rhythmic. I kept the billet turning, striking each face evenly, maintaining the right temperature. Too cold, and the metals would delaminate. Too hot, and the gold would smear.

  “Each layer,” I continued between strikes, “is stretching, joining, reacting. The mithril wants to resist. Gold doesn’t. That tension creates something better than either.”

  The billet formed gradually, becoming shorter, flatter, and bonded. I moved it back into the forge, reheating it carefully. Then again to the anvil, stretching it out into a thin, uniform bar.

  I paused, holding the metal up so the light caught the faint, developing waves on the surface, like grain in ancient wood.

  “That’s the beginning of the pattern,” I said, setting it down to cool slightly. “Later, I’ll twist it, maybe ladder it. Every strike, every grind, adds to the final design. No two are ever the same.”

  The room was quiet now—every apprentice, every journeyman, every visiting mage, watching the glow fade along the edge of the fused metals like a sunrise in steel.

  The billet was cooling quickly. I clamped it in the vise and reached for my twisting tongs. The layered bar still retained its heat, the shine of the metals showing just enough color to give me confidence. I began to twist slowly, with the gold threading like a ribbon through the silver and steel.

  One of the apprentices leaned in. “How do the layers stay together like that? Looks like they should just peel off.”

  “Because I pressed them into one another hot enough to make them forget they were separate,” I said, eyes still on my work. “Heat and time—long enough, hot enough—and metal doesn’t split. It fuses. You give it no choice.”

  The apprentice blinked and nodded slowly, clearly trying to wrap his head around it.

  Another smith asked, “But how do you plan the design? It’s not just random.”

  “It’s never random,” I said. “You arrange the metals in a way that guides the twist. You think about how it’ll flow. This isn’t just strength—it’s storytelling. With practice, you can form letters, glyphs, or even images in the metal as it shapes itself.”

  Arch Mage Vael, standing slightly apart with his arms crossed, tilted his head. “Have you done that before—letters and glyphs? Not etched afterward, but forged within?”

  “Yes, both. Embedding the wording or imagery into the material means it never fades,” I said without hesitation. “It takes a lot of preparation. I’ve done it with steel, gold, and silver. There’s no real difference as long as the layering’s right. This isn’t surface work. It happens at the core—when the metal is still alive. That’s when you shape the story.”

  A ripple went through the other two mages. Scholar Merren’s eyebrows lifted sharply. Her hand had already grabbed a small notebook from her satchel. Magister Thorne muttered something under his breath, prompting her to nod and scribble faster.

  “Inside the core?” Merren asked herself quietly. “Not etched. Forged directly. That’s… not a known practice. Not with that level of precision.”

  Vael’s gaze sharpened as if he were trying to see straight through me. “You may have just described a lost form of rune metallurgy.”

  I shrugged and turned back to the forge. “Maybe. But it’s fun to experiment and create new items. Especially jewelry for your loved ones.”

  Behind them, Seraphina leaned against the doorway of the office, arms folded, her expression unreadable but utterly focused. Her eyes followed every movement of my hands.

  The mage Valis stepped forward, her eyes narrowing. “What keeps it from splitting as it cools?”

  “Trust,” I said, wiping a cloth over the billet and inspecting it. “I mean, trust that I did all the steps correctly. Once it’s bonded in the fire, cold won’t undo it. Not unless there was weakness inside.”

  That appeared to hit a nerve. She nodded, softly murmuring to herself.

  I moved to the polishing station, smoothing out the final surface. As the grit dug in deeper to create a shine, the layers came alive, whorls of light and dark, gold veined through pale steel like sunlight caught in flowing water.

  There was silence now. Just the rasp of cloth, the soft puff of bellows from a distant hearth. And watching eyes.

  I held the bracelet up one last time, turning it slowly in the light. The pattern shimmered—rivers of silver and gold intertwining with stunning detail. It was more than just beautiful. It caught the eye.

  I looked at the people gathering around me. “Anyone else?” I asked, still holding the bracelet.

  A younger smith raised his hand halfway. “Can you… do this with other metals? Like steel and copper?”

  “Yes, though it’s trickier. You have to match their tempers and cooling rates, or they’ll crack apart before you’re done. Gold and mithril behave better together—surprisingly.”

  The female mage stepped forward. “May I?” she asked, gesturing toward the bracelet.

  I nodded and gently placed it in her hand.

  She studied it as if it might blink. The other two leaned in close, whispering rapidly in a language I didn’t understand.

  Mage Vael frowned deeply. “It’s not the same. It’s humming… differently. You feel that?”

  The woman nodded, holding it just above her palm now, as if weighing more than its shape. “It’s subtler. Calmer. Less reactive, but still powerful. Not the same resonance as the necklace.”

  “It’s been shaped differently,” the Magister Thorne murmured. “More than physical form. There’s intent layered into this one. Something… purposeful. Is there anything added to the core of this item?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, no, I just made it to match her dress,” I said, deadpan.

  They didn’t laugh.

  When they returned it, I wiped it again with the clean cloth and turned as Seraphina walked between two of the smiths with a tray of tea and cups balanced gracefully.

  “Hold still,” I said, catching her free hand.

  She looked down as I slid the bracelet over her wrist. It settled with a soft click, snug but comfortable.

  Her fingers traced the weave. “You keep doing this,” she said quietly.

  “Doing what?”

  “Making me look like I belong somewhere bigger than I thought I did.”

  I met her eyes. “You already did. I’m just catching up.”

  She smiled, then bumped her shoulder gently into mine before moving off to hand a cup of tea to one of the mages.

  As she turned and resumed offering cups to the stunned audience, the bracelet gleamed on her wrist—bright, sharp, and impossible.

  The mages didn’t take their eyes off her as she moved. One of them whispered, “He’s not forging metal. He’s forging relics.” And I didn’t correct him.

  That afternoon, the palace’s sunroom exuded elegance. Lace-covered tables lined the sunlit area, each adorned with fresh flowers and fine porcelain teacups that appeared too fragile to touch. The air was infused with the scents of honey, jasmine, and warm pastries. The Queen sat at the center, dressed in a soft mixture of lavender and silver that shimmered with quiet authority. Beside her sat the first prince’s wife—alert and composed—and the Duke’s two wives, one curious and the other coolly reserved.

  Seraphina stepped in without hesitation. Her bracelet shimmered with each step, the braid of mithril and gold catching the light like a whispered secret. She wore pale blue, subtle yet elegant, and held a small velvet pouch in her hands.

  The Queen stepped forward slightly to greet her. “Lady Robertson. I’m so pleased you accepted.”

  Seraphina dipped into a respectful curtsey. “Your Majesty, thank you for the invitation—and for including me.” She paused, stepping forward. “And I’ve brought a small token of appreciation, if I may.”

  The room grew quieter as everyone's eyes focused on the pouch. Seraphina moved forward smoothly and confidently, carefully setting the soft velvet bundle down on the table in front of the Queen.

  The Queen raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “You didn’t need to.”

  “I didn't know,” Seraphina said, offering a small smile. “But I was raised to never go to someone’s house empty-handed.”

  “Seraphina, if I may call you that,” the Queen said, her voice warm yet precise. “Allow me to introduce the others at the table. To my right is my eldest son’s wife, Princess Elyra. And to my left are the wives of my husband’s younger brother, Duke Alaric—Lady Vessara and Lady Mirelle.”

  Seraphina inclined her head gracefully with each name. “Your Highness. Princess. My ladies,” she said, voice steady, respectful, without sounding rehearsed.

  The Queen loosened her tie and opened the pouch. Inside was a brooch—an elegant blossom made of mithril, shaped like a delicate iris. Subtle yet refined, its silvery petals curled outward with perfect balance. At the center rested a smooth lavender stone, round and faintly glowing. The Queen carefully lifted it, holding it up to the sunlight streaming through the window. The brooch caught the light and shimmered as if it had absorbed the sky.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said softly, her voice revealing genuine surprise. “Did your husband make this as well?”

  “Yes,” Seraphina said. “A few days ago, I asked him to create something I could give you as a thank-you. He chose the iris himself, saying it reminded him of strength and elegance.”

  The Queen was silent for a moment. Then she nodded once, slowly and respectfully. "He’s observant.”

  She placed the brooch next to her teacup, but her hand hovered close as if it might drift away. The other women watched quietly, the moment carrying weight not just for the gift, but for who had given it and why.

  “Tell me,” the Queen said, with curiosity hidden beneath her formality. “How does a man with such talent avoid being pulled into politics or power?”

  Seraphina’s smile was steady. “Because he’d rather teach someone how to hold a hammer than tell them what to do with it.”

  The Queen tilted her head, curious. “A man of principles, then.”

  Seraphina’s gaze shifted to the bracelet on her wrist. “A man who believes in doing things right—even if no one’s watching.”

  The room burst into laughter, light and surprised, and the tension eased again.

  There was small talk at first—tea, weather, the roses outside the window—but it didn’t last long. All eyes drifted toward her wrist.

  “That’s exquisite,” the Princess Elyra finally said, nodding toward the bracelet.

  “A gift,” Seraphina replied plainly. “From my husband.”

  “You mean the smith?” asked Lady Vessara.

  Seraphina tilted her head and said, “I mean, David, yes.”

  Lady Mirelle leaned in closer. “He made that? This morning, I’ve heard?”

  Seraphina nodded, her tone casual yet proud. “He did. At the guild forges, in front of the Court Mages and half a dozen smiths. He said he had an idea and wanted to test a technique his father had taught him. It’s made with mithril and some gold.”

  She gently lifted her wrist, allowing the bracelet to catch the light. “It wasn’t even meant to be jewelry. He had some sketches he showed me and asked which I preferred. He was just… creating. That’s who he is.”

  The Queen leaned forward slightly, her gaze curious but friendly. “How did you two meet, if I may ask?”

  Seraphina smiled softly and reached for her teacup. “It started with a locked door, a blunt hammer, and the worst loaf of bread I’ve ever tasted.”

  They blinked. The prince’s wife softly chuckled.

  Seraphina continued, “I was trying to fix the hinge to the storeroom at my family’s store when he passed by, saw me struggling, and offered to help. His hammer was too big and the bread was stale—but the look on his face when he offered both was… sincere.”

  “And that was enough?” Lady Mirelle asked.

  “No. He apologized afterward. Twice. And then came back the next morning to fix the door properly, with tools that actually fit the job.” She paused. “I guess I fell for the man who wanted to make things better, even if he got it wrong the first time.”

  There was a pause in silence—this time, not judgmental but reflective.

  The Queen’s voice was gentle. “Love, born from small honesty. You wear it well, Lady Robertson.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Seraphina said, smiling. “And thank you again for the tea. Though I may be in danger of trading my husband for another plate of those almond pastries.”

  The Queen laughed genuinely. “Then I’ll have the kitchens prepare extra for next time. And perhaps… you’ll tell me more stories over a second cup.”

  Seraphina nodded slightly. “Gladly. But I’ll bring some bread.”

  The heels of their slippers and boots tapped softly on the stone as the Queen and the three noblewomen walked in step down the polished hallway, their fine dresses catching the light from the tall windows. The soft murmuring of their voices blended with the fading scent of tea and lavender biscuits.

  Lady Vessara leaned toward the Queen, her voice casual but sharp beneath its polished surface. “Your Majesty, do you think the Earl takes commissions? A hairpin, maybe, or a pendant? Something simple, of course.”

  “Or a set,” Lady Mirelle added. “Necklace and earrings to match. His style is... unmistakable.”

  Princess Elyra smiled, but her eyes stayed cool. “Assuming his wife allows him to work for others.”

  The Queen said nothing at first. Her expression stayed calm as she led them past two guards flanking the doors to the royal family’s outer chambers. She paused only briefly to allow the guards to open the doors.

  “You’re thinking too small,” the Queen said at last as they entered. “A craftsman like that doesn’t make trinkets. He makes legacies.”

  The Queen’s private sitting room led to the larger outer council chamber, where the King stood by the fireplace with both princes and Duke Alaric. The three court magicians stood in a tight half-circle, mid-discussion.

  “…twisting threads of mithril and gold together,” Arch Mage Vael was saying, “as if they were no more difficult than strands of leather. No flux. No magical binding. Just raw technique. And flawless precision.” He shook his head, still clearly grappling with what he had witnessed.

  “And he did it,” Magister Thorne added, voice low but sharp, “in full view. No obfuscation. No protective barriers or wards to hide behind. He worked openly—transparent—and every move was deliberate. Clear. Masterful. There was no trickery. Just skill. Unbelievable skill.”

  “You forgot the stunning part,” Scholar Valis interrupted, visibly frustrated. “He gave a brief lecture — to smiths, no less — on how to weave glyphs and lettering into the core of the piece.” She wiped her brow as if the mere memory made her blush. “Into the core, Your Majesty. Not etched. Not layered on top. Built into the internal grain of the metal while it was still malleable.” There was a silence that lingered just a beat too long.

  Then Vael said, almost reluctantly, “It should be impossible, even with our knowledge. What he did with his hands… we’ve only seen remnants of that kind of craftsmanship in the relic vaults. And never from a living artisan.”

  “And he does it like he’s breathing,” Thorne said. “Effortless. No pomp. No need for fanfare. Just forge and fire and focus.”

  Valis leaned forward, eyes intense. “We didn’t go to observe a smith, Your Majesty. We witnessed something ancient being revived.”

  The King raised an eyebrow, glancing up at their approach. Queen Margaret stepped forward, her presence commanding yet graceful. She said nothing at first, simply lifting her hand. Resting in her gloved palm was a brooch, no larger than a silver coin, but its elegance captured the room.

  A delicate iris, each petal shaped in polished mithril so fine it could have been spun from moonlight, fanned outward in perfect symmetry. At its center was a single lavender gem, cut so precisely that the light inside it seemed to shimmer with its own pulse.

  “Yes, Margaret?” the King asked, already sensing the weight of the moment.

  “A gift,” she said softly. “From the Earl’s wife. Present at today’s tea.” She carefully placed the brooch in his hand. The King turned it over with the reverence someone might show a sacred relic. “She says he made it for her to bring here. A thank-you,” the Queen added, stepping back beside him.

  Prince Kaelen whistled softly under his breath. “He’s just handing out relics now?”

  “It’s not a relic yet,” one of the mages murmured. “But give it time. It’s mithril. It will outlast us all.”

  Duke Alaric crossed his arms, frowning. “The smith has power and status now. And from what you’re describing, he's attracting too much attention. Now, with the front lines barely holding to the north, we have this.”

  The Queen nodded, but her voice remained steady. “That’s what worries me. Everyone will want something from him. Some will offer gold. Others might use pressure.”

  “And if he refuses?” asked the younger prince, his tone tight.

  Then we watch who gets offended,” said the King, his voice low. “Because that reveals who sees him as a tool... and who views him as a threat.