He found his father lounging comfortably atop the broad oak desk of his solar.
The chamber was just as small, cramped, and fiercely guarded as Basil always remembered it to be. It had the air of a monk's cell rather than a monarch's retreat, with only a narrow, slit-like casement that barely stood unlatched, letting in the sharp bite of winter air that did very little to kill the dead air in the room.
The King's polished boots were propped casually upon the timber, the soles clean enough to eat from. In his hands, he turned and overturned a parchment letter between his fingers, flipping it rhythmically like a quail roasting over a fire.
"Father," Basil greeted, easing the heavy oak door shut until the latch clicked. He knew how much his father treasured his privacy , unless he was waiting for someone , he always wanted the door closed behind him.
