The King sat slumped in the oversized, plush leather chair of his private office, staring down a mountain of reports spread across a desk carved from pure, dark mahogany. These were the latest updates from the Ministry of Agriculture, sent over by Done Doens.
Done wasn't just a minister; he had been the King's close friend for decades. They had survived wars and celebrated victories together, but Done had a peculiar way of showing his loyalty: he was a perfectionist who never made a mistake—except when he was trying to be a massive pain in the neck.
As the King scanned the pages, his eyebrow began to twitch. The reports were filled with "crucial" data on revolutionary seed-planting patterns, seasonal crop rotations, and the mechanical schematics of new field cultivators. To a normal ruler, this was vital state business. To the King, who knew his friend's sense of humor all too well, it was a trap.
He didn't waste another second. With a bored sigh, he slammed his royal seal onto the approval letter with a heavy thud. Beneath his signature, he scrawled a messy, personal note in the margin:
"Stop with the bullshit reports, my friend. If the next stack I see isn't actual state business, consider your 'Performance Bonus' for this month officially deleted. Don't test me."
He tossed the folder into the "Out" box. He tolerated Done's pranks because of their history, but today, his mind was elsewhere. Even in a room filled with the scent of old parchment and expensive wood, he couldn't stop thinking about the silent pulse of the Heart Stone in the nursery down the hall.
Glancing at the clock in his office, the king saw it was already 1:00 p.m. With the weight of a mountain of signed reports behind him, he sighed, "Time for a break." He stood up from his chair placed back his chair in its proper place , vacated his pure mahahogony desk, slowly walked out the office and then locked the office's door with a quiet click. After flipping the 'Open' sign on the door to its back side which showed the 'Closed,' sign he made his way toward the private lunch area located on a isolated part of the castle's garden which using strict security measures as different kind of sensonrs only allowed his family members in, there a homemade lunch—crafted with love by his wife—awaited him.
As he stepped into the garden's clearing, the sight before him made his heart skip a beat. There sat the Queen, looking radiant under the dappled sunlight, cradling their sleeping son in her arms. She looked up as he approached, a warm, knowing smile breaking across her face that made the stress of the morning vanish instantly. The King didn't say a word; he simply stepped into her space, leaning down to wrap them both in a protective, tender embrace. He felt the soft breath of the baby against his chest and the familiar comfort of his wife's arms around him. For these few precious minutes, he he felt he wasn't a ruler or a warrior—he was just a man meeting his world in the middle of a garden.
After sharing a few tender moments with his wife and their newborn son, the king finally took his seat for lunch. His queen served him herself, moving with quiet grace as she placed each dish before him. No servants lingered nearby; the king allowed no outside presence when he was with his family, guarding these private hours as something sacred.
It was a habit his wife cherished deeply. In those moments, stripped of ceremony and courtly formality, he was not simply a king but a husband and father, wholly theirs. She, in turn, delighted in spending long hours in the kitchen preparing his meals with her own hands, preferring to cook for him herself rather than leave the task to palace chefs. It was her quiet expression of love and devotion—a simple, intimate ritual that made their royal lives feel, for a little while, like that of any ordinary happy family.
After finishing his meal, he looked up at his wife and asked softly, "How is the baby doing, my love? Is there any chance I might speak with him?"
The queen, who had risen to gather the empty dishes and arrange them neatly on the tray she had brought in, glanced toward the cradle with a fond smile. "Not now," she replied gently after setting the last plate in place. "He only just fell asleep a little while ago. Perhaps this evening—he likes to wake around then, usually when hunger calls for him."
Though the king knew his duties awaited him and that time was a precious commodity, he rose from his chair and stepped quietly toward the cradle where his son lay sleeping, drawn by the irresistible pull only a father could know.
But the baby had other plans.
The moment the king lifted him into his arms, the child stirred from his deep sleep and opened his eyes, gazing up at his father. Those deep blue eyes, bright and curious despite his drowsiness, filled the king with sudden joy. At last, he had been granted a few precious moments to spend with his son.
"Who are you, little one?" the king murmured warmly, his voice rich with affection. "Yes, you are my son… and whose the best baby? Yes, you are."
The infant answered only with soft, restless movements, tiny hands curling as though reaching for the sound of his father's voice. The king laughed quietly and played with him for a few tender minutes, savoring every fleeting second.
At last, with reluctance, he laid the child gently back into the cradle. Then, after bidding his wife a fond farewell, he took his leave and returned to his office, where the remainder of the day's unfinished duties still awaited him.
Just as the king turned to leave, believing his brief visit with his son had come to an end, a soft sound rose from the cradle behind him.
"Dada," the baby prince murmured, his tiny voice faint yet unmistakable.
The king froze where he stood, scarcely trusting his own ears. For a heartbeat, the world around him seemed to fall silent as the meaning of that single word reached him. Then, overcome with astonishment and joy, he turned at once and hurried back to the cradle, his face alight with wonder. There lay his son, wide awake and gazing up at him with those deep blue eyes, as though calling his father back for just a little more time. In that moment, no royal duty, no matter how urgent, could rival the precious miracle of hearing his child's very first word.