"Even kings can wake up with regrets and whiskey on their breath, but the mark of a true ruler is what he chooses to do after the stumble."
Alaric's POV
The first thing that woke me was not the light. It was not even the dull throb behind my eyes, pounding like an army of smiths hammering steel on anvils inside my skull. No, what dragged me out of sleep was the smell. By the heavens, I reeked of Whiskey, smoke, and regret, an intoxicating blend that clung to my skin and sheets. If a bard were to pen a song about me in this state, it would be titled The King Who Drowned in a Barrel and Died of Guilt.
I groaned; one arm flung dramatically over my face, and the sheets were twisted around my legs like a trap, sticky with the faint sheen of sweat. My mouth was dry, tongue heavy, and tasting of ash and stale liquor. For a brief, dangerous moment, I considered refusing to leave this bed. Surely even monarchs deserved one day to recover from being fools.
