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Though not temperamental, the king is not a patient man. At his scowl, Ren, Galfrid’s second commander, repeats the question.

“Will we mount another attack on Edingham?”

It was an easy decision.

“We have a more imminent threat.”

The other members of the Curia proceed to argue with each other as if the king hadn’t just lost his child. Some remind Galfrid of the reason he agreed to the attack. Or the preparations we’ve been undergoing for months. Others agree with me, that the king’s nephew will waste no time gathering support to lay claim to the greatest prize in Meria.

Heir to the crown of our great kingdom.

“Enough,” the king says, and the rest quiet. We all know one man’s opinion matters more than the rest.

“Edingham will have to wait until Vanni returns.”

All eyes turn to me.

There are just seven people in all of Meria who know the king has a bastard son. Six of them are in this room. The seventh? The king’s wife, who insisted the babe be sent away.

“He must come.” I can easily read the king’s expression. Hidden beneath his regal bearing and trimmed white beard is a look of gut-wrenching grief and worry. I’ve never seen him like this, and he does not wear the emotions easily. But there’s only one comfort for a king who cares about his kingdom above all else: to know his crown will pass down to a worthy man. His nephew, whom none in the Curia like, does not meet that description.

He must not become the heir. I will ensure it.