The quill fell from my hand and splattered ink across the page in front of me. Silence fell across the room. My jaw clenched and I glared at my hand as the fingers struggled to close. Of all the movements I attempted over the past three weeks, writing wasn't the hardest to accomplish. Even if the royal physician told me that it would take time and I shouldn't allow myself to be frustrated if it seemed like I wasn't making any progress, there was only so much rationality I had. With all the exercises that they put me through to ensure that the muscle in my legs that atrophied would return, it seemed ridiculous that I couldn't hold a simple quill.
I took it into my hand again and placed the metal tip against the parchment in front of me. Yet, I didn't know what to write. As much as this
