“I just don’t know how to take this all in,” Tav said. “I was just an average guy before and now—”

“I’m sorry, you make swords and travel around Europe to battle strangers at tournaments. That’s not quite average.”

Tav rolled his eyes. “Okay, I was a not-famous guy. Now I’m a meme on social media, whatever meme means. I’m in the papers. They’ve started calling me the patron saint of refugees, talking about my mum and everything that happened to her, and how I grew up in this diverse family that represents the best of Scotland, or the worst of it depending on who’s telling it. They’ve already started telling this story about me that doesn’t feel like me at all. What if I don’t live up to it? Or what if the story changes for the worse? Or what if everyone I’m close to gets hurt?”

“Those are all eminently reasonable questions that I do not have the answers to,” Johan said sadly.

Tav stood and walked over to the sandpaper and unfinished blade he’d been working on before Johan had entered his office. He started working the grit over the metal, but even that familiar, usually calming motion brought him no pleasure. It reminded him that though orders had gone through the roof, he was too swamped to get into a solid production mode and his apprentice was still a beginner because he’d been shite at training her.

“How does this all shake out, long term? I know it’s different for you, because I’m a lowly duke and you’re a prince.”

Tav was cut off by Johan raising a hand. “That isn’t true. You have more social standing than me, Your Grace. I’m not a prince. Though I am your better, I’m the stepson of a king and the stepbrother of a prince. I’m not in the line of succession, so the only title I actually own is Prince of the Tabloids, and that’s responsibility enough.”

“I’d honestly forgotten,” Tav said.

Johan scrubbed his knuckles over his jaw, the movement at odds with the refined and aloof air he usually had. “People only seem to remember at the most inopportune times. But keeping up the fantasy isn’t so very hard. The public wants a wild and carefree European prince to project their fantasies onto. I saw the position was open, and I took it.”

“So you lie then? Is that what I have to look forward to?”

“Some call it lying, I call it sculpting perception. I’m rather like one of the Renaissance masters if you really think about it.”

“The only thing you have in common with the masters is that they were also famous for bare asses plastered in public places,” Tav griped, and Johan barked out a loud, deep laugh, losing all pretense of refinement; it was the first time Johan had really let his guard down in their three days together.

Johan looked up at him, cheeks ruddy. “Okay. For that brief moment of joy, I’ll trade you perhaps the most important piece of advice in my arsenal.”

Tav leaned forward.

“Don’t eat the brussels sprouts at Buckingham Palace. They’re soggy, with not even a hint of bacon fat to give them some flavor, and they give you atrocious gas.”

“Johan.”

“Oh wait! That wasn’t the advice. This is it. Every person in your situation has to find the style in which they will wear the mantle that has been placed on them. Me? I court attention, I give the public something that they lap up like thirsty ostriches, but I don’t give them myself. I took that lesson from my mother’s example.”

Tav’s head was spinning. “Fuck’s sake. This really is like a full-time job.”

“People have expectations, Tavish. What you need to focus on isn’t how to fit in with the aristocracy, though it is a helpful tool. You need to figure out what you are able to give to the public, and what you must keep for yourself. Unfortunately for you, I still retain the title of hottest royal bachelor, now that Thabiso is married. What do you want?”

There was really only one thing Tav wanted, one person, but she seemed increasingly out of his reach. Was this how his biological father had felt, watching the woman he loved get crowded out by his title and responsibilities?

Tav closed his eyes for a minute. He’d thought he’d had what he wanted in the past—his swordmaking business. His family. His community. But now he had the opportunity to do so much more, even though the cost would be higher—emotionally, not financially. He’d once thought losing the armory was the biggest problem he could face, but now he was at risk of losing himself.

Portia’s face popped into his mind, wearing the expression she always made when trying to explain some internet shite to him. He thought of Jamie’s smile as he excitedly described his hopes for the future, and of Cheryl making her living with the culinary knowledge that’d been passed down to her from her parents. He thought of Syed, and his mother and father. Of Johan, who seemed so carefree and spontaneous on the covers of tabloids, but who rarely laughed.

Something was coalescing in his mind. He jumped out of the chair and went to the circular window in his office. Down below, he saw two paparazzi leaning against the building across the street.

“You know what I like to do when I need to think?” he asked.

“Throw logs, or something of the sort?” Johan ventured.

Tav turned to him. “I like to make weapons. Outdoors at the smithy. Get all sweaty and the like. A wise person once explained to me that the public found that sort of activity appealing. That sharing it online was called a ‘thirst trap.’ You ever make a sword before?”