“No, not me. I have nothing of the sort at my disposal.”

Disappointment thudded through him. “If you are aware that witches are real, do you know much about the legend of the Kindred?”

“Only that it’s a bedtime story I told my daughter when she was a child.” Basha took another deep drink of the wine, then she frowned at him. “Why do you wish to know so much about magic and witches? Who are you?”

Magnus was spared from answering by a commotion at the door. A pair of men entered the tavern, laughing and boisterous. “Wine for everyone,” one of them announced as they moved toward the barkeep. “I’ve been appointed the official florist for the royal wedding and wish to celebrate my good fortune!”

An excited cheer resonated through the tavern, and the man was slapped on his back and offered words of congratulations— except for one gray-haired man at the bar.

“Bah,” he said. Wrinkles splayed out from the corners of his eyes and down his hollow cheeks. “You’re all fools to buy in to such romantic drivel. The prince of Limeros and the princess of Auranos are a match made in the darklands by the darkest demon himself.”

Magnus hid his raised eyebrows in a deep swallow of cider.

“I disagree,” the florist said, his enthusiasm undeterred. “I think King Gaius is right—such a union will aid relations between our kingdoms and help push forward into a bright and prosperous future for us all.”

“Yes, relations between kingdoms. Kingdoms that he now controls with little resistance, apart from a few scattered rebel groups who don’t know their arses from holes in the ground by what little they’ve done to rise up against the King of Blood.”

The florist paled. “I caution you against speaking so freely in public.”

The old man snorted. “But if we are ruled by such a wondrous king as you believe, I should be able to speak my mind wherever and whenever I like. No? But perhaps I’ve seen more years and more troubles than the rest of you young people. I know lies when I hear them and that king speaks them whenever his lips are moving. In a dozen years, he reduced the citizens of Limeros to a shivering mass afraid to speak out against him or break any of his rules for fear of death. You think he’s changed in a matter of months?” He drained his glass angrily. “No, he sees our vast numbers when compared to his legion of guards. He sees that we are a force to be reckoned with if we ever were to stand up against him united. So he must keep us happy and quiet. Ignorance is a trait shared by many Auranians—always has been. It sickens me to my very soul.”

The florist’s smile had tightened. “I’m sorry you can’t share in the joy the rest of us feel. I for one am greatly anticipating Prince Magnus and Princess Cleiona’s wedding—and their upcoming tour across the kingdom. And I know the majority of Auranians feel the same.”

“The princess is currently held captive by rebels. You really think there will be a wedding?”

The florist’s eyes grew glossy and a hush fell upon the tavern. “I have hope she will be rescued unharmed.”

The old man snorted. “Hope. Hope is for fools. One day you will see that I am right and you are wrong. When your golden days tarnish and the King of Blood shows his true face behind the mask he wears to appease the soft, ignorant masses in this once great land.”

The mood in the tavern had grown more somber the longer this man spoke. Magnus looked away from the argument to realize that Basha was staring at him, her brows drawn tightly together.

“That’s who you remind me of, young man. You look a great deal like Prince Magnus, the son of the king.”

She’d said it loud enough to gain the attention of other nearby tables. A dozen pairs of eyes now fixed upon him.

“I’ve been told that before, but I assure you I am not.” He rose from his seat at the table. “Much gratitude for the information you’ve given me, Basha.” Although, nothing worthwhile. Only more disappointment. “I wish you a good day.”

He departed the tavern, looking neither left nor right, pulling his cowl closer around his face.

Magnus’s head ached by the time he returned to the palace. It was late in the day and the sun was setting. On his way from the stables, his path crossed with that of Aron Lagaris.

“Prince Magnus,” Aron said. His voice sounded different, stronger. Perhaps the boy was taking his new station seriously and had refrained from drinking a bucket of wine already today. “Where have you been?”

Magnus leveled his gaze with Aron’s. “My father seems oddly fond of you as his newest kingsliege, but has he suddenly assigned you to become my keeper?”

“No.”

“My personal bodyguard?”

“Uh . . . no.”

“Then where I have been is none of your concern.”

“Of course not.” Aron cleared his throat. “However, I should let you know that your father wants to see you immediately upon your return from . . . wherever it is you’ve been.”

“Does he now? Then far be it for me to keep the king waiting another moment.”

Aron did an awkward half bow, which Magnus ignored as he swept past him. A day that started with nightmares and disappointment did not seem to be improving.

The king stood outside his throne room, his favorite hound next to him. He spoke quietly with Cronus. As soon as he spotted Magnus, he sent the guard away with a flick of his wrist.

“What is it?” Magnus asked, frowning.