King Drakovitch raised his hand, silencing the applause of the noble houses once more. He looked down at the eighteen-year-old woman kneeling at his feet, his eyes lingering on her vibrant crimson locks.
"Your siblings, those who are nothing but scattered ashes now, always called you 'red head' or worse… 'red bastard' because of that vibrant trait," the king said, his raspy voice dropping into a more personal tone.
"Now tell me, child. As I prepare to name you, it is your choice to keep a reminder of that, or—"
The king didn't even get a chance to finish his sentence before the redhead cut in, her newly matured, steady voice echoing clearly through the grand cathedral.
