Waiting For the King

Shebyra does not discuss her story with the others; appearing aloof, as a protective shield. The rest of the court shy away, scared of her mask, as formidable as a chastity belt triple locked under a straight jacket. Shebyra hears their whispers, many directed at her closed countenance. Peacock flamboyance is not her style; never was; she remains in the shadows watching fools blatantly show their hands. No one approaches which is a relief. She has had enough of one man to last a lifetime, and is unsure when or where he will appear. Just the sound of his voice strikes a bit of terror in her. As wife, she had been his captive for six years. There is a commotion. The king is coming. She draws back into the corners, hovering like a crow who wants to get the shiny thing, but is terrified of consequences. His voice booms, for he is magnificent and powerful, and the hall trembles. She holds back in the shadows, holding her breath, hoping he will not notice her until she plunges in the knife. If she gets away with it, this will insure that she is the one chosen to be the next ruler.