"Greetings to you, My King." Acantrope the Boogeyman says, his face pressed into the floor.
She knows that she should be on the floor too, that she should not dare to look upon the king's face before she had been bid to do so. But she is frozen, and she cannot stop her eyes from sweeping up from the ornate legs of the enormous throne to the face of the king who sits atop it.
Shock courses through her as their eyes connect. Those eyes. They had been the last thing she had seen before she died in her dream. His eyes narrow on her, and she knows that that different kinds of thoughts on her insolence is going through his head but she cannot stop staring at him. He looks the same, exactly the same as he had in her dreams. How is that possible? His face is no longer darkened by anguish and he
