I never believed in divine justice.
Not after what I saw of kings.
For years after my mother died, I went through life like a clockwork machine wound too tightly. I smiled when it was expected. I spoke only when spoken to. I bowed when the crown entered the room. My performance was flawless, mechanical—an imitation of the loyalty I had once felt.
Inside, however, I was a void. The same sort of silence that exists after a devastating plague kills all life in an area, when all that remains is the stink of rot and the memory of what once lived there.
I thought there would never be an opportunity to take my revenge. The royal family was too well-guarded, too covered in divine artifacts passed down from their ancestors and possessing demi-god level guards in the dark.
And even if I raised a rebellion, who would follow a man without a banner? No one pays attention to the words of a servant.
So I did what I had always done best—I waited.
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