One tower, stronger than two. The boy thought as he stacked the tower as high as he was.
Crouching under the table, not out of fear, or shame. But out of comfort, he found no other place to crouch down here. He was short enough to sit but tall enough that his head would occasionally bump against the back of the table.
The boy built with blocks a palace fit for a king, as he might one day be. He stole the wooden tiles from the carpenter's shop and took the resin from the forest so that the glue would stick. He carved them himself; he was very proud and even signed his name on the corner.
It's a shame he had to rescue them from the fire his father threw into it.
'Father always talks over me when he's dealing with important matters,' the boy thought to himself. He didn't know if his father wanted some of it to sink in or if he simply didn't think the boy heard it. "All he does every day is play with these blocks. I tried to give him a hunting knife so we could try to bond so that he could enjoy the pleasure of hunting." The father put his hand down as if he was ashamed, "When I gave him the knife, he responded, 'How can I eat with that?' as if it was a steak knife."
"Look at him, he's useless." He patted his head, hard. The touch of it on his skin startled him; shivering all over, he looked away from his father. He hoped that if he stopped looking at him, maybe he would cease to exist.
He looked at everything but him in the patterns of the carpet, how they all fit together. He had been trying to solve this puzzle for many days and had failed.
"I could also kill him; he's an abomination of nature," he said with a certain degree of uncertainty. As if his existence bothered him, but it would take too much effort to get rid of him. He noted indifferently, "There will be new boys sold at the port today; I'll just add another boy to the list."
The boy thought, does he intend to sell me?
"Are you sure, sir?" the guard asked the king.
"Yes," he confirmed.