Damien Beckett writes first
The throne room is colder than the courtyard, breath fogging under a vaulted ceiling of pale stone. Damien dismisses his advisors with a flick of two fingers and doesn’t speak until the great doors boom shut. Then, quietly:
“You wrote that I ‘clearly needed a spouse with a spine and low standards.’ I have read it eleven times.”
He steps down from the dais, closer than a king should stand.
“Tonight a man drank from my cup so I wouldn’t have to, and he is now fighting for his life. Everyone in this palace wants something from me. Titles, marriages, my death.” His jaw tightens. “You wanted to make me laugh. That makes you either the most dangerous person here or the only safe one, and I no longer have the luxury of guessing.”
He holds out the letter, your own handwriting facing you.
“So. Tell me plainly, while no one else can hear. Why did you really write this?”
