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“What do you mean?”

“King Anastasius was the younger son. He took the title of crown prince from his elder brother.”

“Took?”

“He believed his intelligence made him the better choice and set a trap to disgrace him. He wanted to show that in a pinch, his brother would make stupid decisions, corrupt decisions. And he was right.”

“The high duke wants to take back what he thinks should be his.”

“He spent years trying to regain his position, only to have it confirmed time and time again that he’s not fit to be king; he’s short-sighted, stupid.” Skriniaris Evander sighs. “The high duke is after the throne, but I believe more than that, he wants to prove his father and brother wrong. To prove he’s capable. Smart. Worthy of their love.”

I frown, struggling with a swirl of sympathy.

“It doesn’t help that the only friend the duke had, the only one who gave him any sense of love and worth, was killed by crusaders along with his entire family.”

I let out an anguished breath.

“Do you pity him?” Skriniaris Evander asks softly.

I cast my gaze to the pavilions outside.

“Good. That’s good. No one is born bad in this world.”

“But it can’t forgive his ruthless actions. He’s killed many innocent people.”

“Indeed. But it’s also a lesson in the importance of nurturing—of kindness; of compassion.”

I look at Skriniaris Evander. “Why do I feel there’s more to those words?”

“There is. You have a responsibility to help nurture Constantinos into the king he needs to be for the people.”

“I—I’m a struggling scholar!”

“He is a struggling king.”

“He already has plenty of confidence.”

Skriniaris Evander leans in. “He’s a very good actor.”

“Shouldn’t... shouldn’t this be something his brother should do? Or his wife?”

“His wife was a political choice, made by his father. His brother, equally, was determined by birth. They will both impact his growth, but you are different. You may have a more profound effect on him than anyone.” He emphasises each word. “Hechoseyou.”

I rock back in my chair; hard wood scrapes along the floor and Taffy jumps off my lap, startled. “I-I think you misunderstand the depth of our relationship.”

Kind eyes crinkle softly at the edges. “I don’t think I do.”

* * *

I rearrange grandfather’s books on my back and fluff my cloak for air. It’s been strangely hot since I left the library.

Wrong. Skriniaris Evander is wrong. Quin didn’t choose me—we kept tripping over one another, and have simply learned to live with it.

I shake off the strange conversation and hurry along the cobbled streets of the inner capital. Brazen birds pick at crumbs left on outdoor tables, and a family of mice skitters along the gutter, shooed away by a broom-wielding matron preparing for the lunch crowd.

A young boy of eight or nine rushes past me, grazing my side, his eyes focused ahead, arms cradling a package close to his chest. He zooms around the corner, towards the market. In the distance behind me, heavy, wheezing shouts.

A middle-aged, white-aproned man pauses to puff then bursts once more into a jog.