bound.

Phoeavanix Mundrayna, or Pho, as the other servants enjoyed calling her, was the child king’s nervous habit.
If he was feeling bored, awkward, or edgy whatsoever, she was the person he found. In some cases, he sought her when distraught.
Today was one of those cases.
The seventeen-year-old monarch was slouched before her when she turned from her work in the royal greenhouse, upon his face etched a mask of horror and pain so potent that her first impulse was to check for a gaping wound.
“Max,” she whispered, “what’s wrong?”
“They expect me to marry her.” He sniffled, enormous brown eyes wrought with terror.
Pho gasped.