King Aeron Valdamar possessed an endless reserve of patience when it came to military sieges, political maneuvering, and stalking his wife through the corridors of the Imperial Palace.
He possessed absolutely zero patience for minor medical inconveniences.
"This is absurd," Aeron growled, glaring at the stack of parchment resting on his heavy oak desk. "I am the King of Arindale. I should not be defeated by a piece of paper."
Kaia sat on a velvet settee near the fireplace of his private study, a book resting forgotten on her lap. She watched him pace with deep, affectionate amusement.
Aeron's right hand was still heavily bandaged in thick white linen. The burns he had sustained catching the Sun-Fire torch were healing, but the royal physician had strictly forbidden him from flexing his fingers or holding a quill for at least another four days. For a man who obsessed over controlling every detail of his empire, it was sheer torture.
