Not very humble

                                    

                                          

I got up from my chair and shuffled over to the corner of my room where a dusty chest awaited me. The chest was tucked away as if it were a forgotten relic from another lifetime. I brushed off the cobwebs and flicked away the layers of dust that had settled on it, revealing the chest's faded edges and worn clasps. With a sense of quiet anticipation, I pried it open and began rummaging through its contents. My fingers brushed against the familiar weight of an easel, and I pulled it out with a gentle reverence. Next, I retrieved a fresh canvas, its pristine surface waiting to be transformed. My paints, arranged in a careful spectrum, lined up in front of me, ready to burst forth in a riot of color.
Painting had been my sanctuary growing up here. While Ezra was off learning the ways of nobility, I would remain behind in the solitude of this room, indulging in the solace of paint and books. The Queen had often let me capture her likeness, and though I thought my portraits were modest at best, she always encouraged me to hone my craft. My favorite subject had always been the garden, a paradise that unfolded just beyond my window. From my vantage point, I could see the sun-kissed blooms and the cascade of colors that played across the petals and leaves. The vibrant greens and the multitude of hues danced in the sunlight, creating a living painting that changed with the seasons. I set up by the window, the cool breeze rustling through the open panes. I took a deep breath, letting the crisp scent of the forest fill my lungs. The scent was a balm to my nerves, and I could already feel the tension beginning to melt away.
The King was an enigma, his harsh demeanor often softened only by the memory of his late wife, Alexandria. His cruelty had always been tempered by the undeniable love he held for her. They had been inseparable, celebrating every milestone together, even those that seemed trivial to the rest of us. His rigid exterior melted away in her presence, revealing a tenderness that was otherwise obscured. I could understand, to some degree, his harshness. His loss had shaped him, and while he had never been particularly kind to me, Alexandria had always stood up for me. In her absence, I had become a nonentity to him. His disdain, I presumed, was born of grief and an almost obsessive focus on molding Ezra into the perfect successor. Today's events had been inevitable, a culmination of the King's fears and frustrations. As much as I felt humiliated, I couldn't fault his concerns. His life's work was the future of his kingdom, and he saw threats where others might not. But now, as I dipped my brush into the rich, vibrant paint and swept it across the canvas, the weight of those thoughts began to lift. With each stroke, my stress eased, and I found solace in the familiar rhythm of painting. Here, in the quiet of my room, surrounded by the beauty of the garden, I could finally breathe.
There had been little time for this kind of peace in Ava's world, and even less in terms of resources. Now, as I watched the birds flit past and felt the cool air against my skin, I savored the simple joy of painting. It was a small escape, a momentary refuge from the complexities of my life, and for that, I was grateful.
The afternoon slipped away in a swirl of colors and brushstrokes. I had lost myself in the act of painting, trying to capture the serene beauty of the forest I had explored with Ava. Each stroke on the canvas was a tribute to the tranquil spots that had left such an impression on me, a keepsake for my memory. I yearned to return there someday, but with the King's gaze fixed on me and the preparations for the ball consuming my time, that day felt distant. With a sigh, I set my paintbrush down and began to clean up. The vibrant hues on my palette had dried into a  more muted palette, mirroring the fading light outside. I had promised Ezra I'd meet him, and given the recent confrontation with his father, I anticipated our conversation would be as strained as it was necessary.
I gathered my supplies and organized them neatly into the chest they came from. I then made my way through the corridors, the walls of my hall adorned with portraits I had painted over the years. Each one was a snapshot of a moment, a testament to the Queen's unwavering support of my craft. I admired them as I passed, finding a small comfort in their familiar faces.