He was supposed to go on as if nothing had happened. As if his mother wasn’t dead. As if she hadn’t died in his arms as he watched helplessly, unable to do anything to save her.
Unable even to bring the assassin to justice.
Prince Eli stared at his dinner. He was allowed to fidget. He had to act as befit his station.
He hated eating. Food tasted like ash, and the time would be better spent training to be stronger.
Here’s a series of micro fictions on Prince Eli from To Love a Prince. He’s been in my thoughts lately, so I decided to write it down.