A corrupt King sits the throne. The last generation of heroes have gone extinct. The lands are as green and as promising as they ever were. The Gods watch with interest and they wait. As next the next uprising comes from the most unlikely of places. A slow burn novel.
No, Oliver Patrick was a different sort. He knew, quite firmly, that he didn't exist completely on the side of the good.
He bowed to her, as he arose. "Thank you for your time, Princess. I shall be busy most weekends from now on, but, if you should ever wish to speak, I shall make time for you whenever you need it."
He didn't get a reply to that. From the heaving of Asabel's shoulders, she didn't trust herself to speak. Oliver was not aware of just how embarrassed she was, at having cried so openly in front of all those who knew her.
"Patrick," Lancelot stopped him, just as he crossed the threshold of the door of the living room. He'd hurried to catch him, and he reached out an arm to stop him, a thoroughly serious look on his face. "I think I might owe you thanks – though I do not know what for."