Now, from far away, one Duke was silently wishing he were in the position of those confused soldiers on the ground.
At least if he were in their place, he'd already be breathing the same air as his family—smelly, possibly toxic air, but still the same air.
And yet there he was, in his lonesome—
(Ahem, the staff would beg to differ.)
Right, again, from the top!
There he was, in his lonesome, unable to reach them fast enough.
It was a tragic sight. A man of power, dignity, and unshakable authority… currently drooping like an unwatered houseplant in a luxury seat.
Every now and then, a soft, miserable sigh would escape him—one so heavy that it visibly deflated the morale of everyone in the room.
The attendant quietly motioned for someone to offer the Duke tea.
The tea bearer trembled. "He's already had seven cups, sir."
"Then offer him eight!" the attendant hissed, desperate.
Another employee whispered, "Should we… should we distract him?"
"With what?"
