Maximus did not like what he was reading in the reports on his desk. The parchment was stacked in uneven piles, edges curled from repeated handling, ink smudged where tired fingers had lingered too long. Despite the food shortages, many of the small nations were still attempting to march on his country. That was only to be expected. Desperation had a way of convincing people that violence was cheaper than patience. What really displeased him was that most of those nations were now on the verge of civil war.

  The rulers and nobles had funneled as much food to the army as they could, loudly praising sacrifice and unity. But they did not give from their own stores. Oh no. They had taken it from their peasants and citizens instead, stripping granaries bare and leaving villages hollowed out and resentful. Maximus could almost hear the unrest brewing between the lines of each report, the unspoken warning that hunger always came before revolt.

  Then there were reports of dungeons putting out more troops for the war. Some dungeons had even pulled their influence fully from the surface to better internalize their mana supply. Thus, the passive life that had once flourished around those dungeons—lush fields, stable settlements, fragile ecosystems built on borrowed abundance—was beginning to wither. The consequences would not be immediate, but they would be brutal and long-lasting.

  Maximus rubbed his temples, the faint ache behind his eyes a reminder of how long he had been awake. He was about to summon his advisors to begin making more plans when a knock came from his door, soft but confident.

  "Come in," he sighed, straightening a few papers out of habit rather than necessity.

  "I heard you were having a bad day," Antionette's voice called out before he could even see her. "So I brought a treat. Peter and my father taught me to make cookies."

  She strode into his office carrying a plate filled with small disks. The divine smell of chocolate tickled Maximus' nose, cutting cleanly through the stale scent of ink, wax, and overworked paper that had settled into the room.

  "Those smell great," he admitted, a hint of genuine warmth slipping into his voice. "I was not expecting you to visit."

  "We fought together," she responded easily. "Does that not make us friends of a kind?"

  Maximus smiled softly, the tension in his shoulders easing despite himself. "It does."

  "Have some," Antionette offered as she placed the plate on one of the few spots not covered in papers. She nudged a ledger aside without ceremony.

  Without a word or doubt, Maximus gingerly took one of the disks off the plate. They were golden brown and still warm, crumbs clinging to his fingers. He bit into it and almost melted. The cookie dissolved on his tongue, rich and sweet, a small but powerful reminder of comforts he had been neglecting.

  "Amazing," he sighed. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

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  "I was worried," she admitted. "The fey are helping the others. The other survivors—even Alycia—are in a rough spot."

  "No need to worry," he assured her. "This may have been the bloodiest war I have seen, but it is not the first." Even as he said it, the words felt thinner than usual.

  Antionette walked up next to him, close enough that he could feel her presence before she touched him. She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him, firm and unyielding, as if anchoring him in place.

  "You need time to process," she said as she patted his back, slow and steady.

  "I said..." he began, instinctively reaching for authority as a shield.

  "My father warned me that you and I were alike," Antionette interrupted. "That we both deal with overwhelming emotions by diving headfirst into distractions."

  Maximus went to rebut her, but she simply placed another cookie in his mouth. The protest died before it could begin.

  "My father told me I was cruel to you last time," Antionette continued. "I was trying to stay busy so that I would not have to think about all that happened—about how I failed, even in our victory."

  Maximus just silently listened, staring down at the reports he could not seem to fix. He had forgotten just how young she was, and how heavy the weight she carried truly was.

  "So many died because I was too weak," she sighed. "Then I threw myself into work and other distractions so I would not have to admit it." She patted his back again, still hugging him to her abdomen, grounding them both.

  After a few seconds' pause, Maximus thought it was safe to speak, but instead found Antionette feeding him yet another cookie. Crumbs dusted the front of his robes.

  "You can't lie to me," she cut him off. "I talked to your staff. You have been in here for days. You are not sleeping regularly."

  "I have skills that make it so I don't need to," he rebutted weakly.

  "And that stresses out those who look to you," she warned him. "If you are working hard, it means something is wrong. And that stresses out those below you. So they work harder to try and pull some of that weight off."

  Maximus paused, the truth of it settling uncomfortably in his chest.

  "You need to take regular breaks," she continued. "Let those below you think they are pulling their weight. Let them think they are helping and not hindering you."

  Maximus let out an explosive sigh, the sound echoing faintly in the quiet office.

  "You're right," he finally admitted. "After our last talk, I felt like I had to live up to your expectations. I buried myself in work. And nothing has really changed," he admitted aloud. "I have pored over all this, and yet I have been able to change nothing."

  "Then maybe it is time to rest," Antionette suggested. "Maybe we have that dinner you wanted to take me to."

  Maximus raised an eyebrow, glancing once more at the mountain of unfinished work.

  "What happened to learning to cook?" he teased.

  "I learned some," she admitted. "But Father explained the difference between hobby and duty. I can enjoy cooking as a hobby, but as a queen it is the duty of those below me to ensure I have food. He called it division of labor."

  "He sounds like a man who rambles," Maximus teased.

  "Oh, he is," she admitted. "He loves to talk about systems and how everything is connected. He told me I needed to go out and live a real life. That I needed to gain experience, because that will translate to perspective one day."

  "Sometimes it does," Maximus admitted. "Thank you for checking on me." The words came easier than he expected.

  He could not see her smile, but he could feel the warmth of it as she looked down at him, patient and sincere.

  "So, what are we eating?" Antionette asked.

  "I think I will ask the chef to surprise us," Maximus declared as he finally stood, joints stiff from disuse. "You can't always know what life is about to throw at you, and variety is the spice of life."

  "That sounds like fun," Antionette admitted as she helped him stand, guiding him gently toward the door and, for once, away from the weight of the world.