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Another week, another never-ending parade of sob stories only money can fix, sponsorship deals from local pizza restaurants, and suitor requests from neighbouring Kingdoms. It’s all so tiresome. The last thing Victoria Royale wants to see is a single envelope, a crude acronym across its front. Opening it, she reads to herself. Were there anyone around her, they would have felt the suffocating aura she exudes, as her anger rose. Her royal blues turning ever more purple as that flick switches inside of her and the blood pressure builds up. Taking a moment to calm herself, she calls for a servant. A familiar well-dressed man arrives, alone, holding a pen and paper behind his back. The Queen does not know his name, and though she stares at him intently, he makes no eye contact.
“Take a memo for me and draft a reply. You will not need to write much.”
>[Victoria recalls a phrase her father used to tell her, rest his soul. ‘Pawns move where commanded. Queens move where they want.’]
“I want no part of their little games. Tell them my answer is no, they will find someone else.”
