“Oh, and…take my laundry out and make sure that all the dishes are spotless.” King Merrymir waved the servant away, turning now to his seated advisor.

“Your Majesty, aren’t you the least bit worried about Farvus?” the advisor asked uncomfortably.

“Farvus? Farvus, hrm…” The king brooded for a moment. “Ah, yes! Farvus, my son! That Farvus.”

The advisor looked at the king, eyebrows raised worriedly.

“Yes, well, he is…what, thirty-two now? He can take care of himself.”

“He’s seventeen, sire. He also happens to be a Dragynslayer, the most dangerous job in the entire known world.”

“Ah. Yes, well, like I said. Ripe old age as he is, all those alchemysts’ Dragyn’s will be quaking in their rusted hides.”

“Sire, he’s your son!”

“Right you are.” He motioned at another servant, speaking softly now. “Yes, could you dust off the royal tapestries and…perhaps make sure my royal undergarments are in the right drawer?”

The servant and the advisor grimaced at the exact same time.