POV: Alexandro
They start calling me the heir out loud when I turn twelve.
Not as a compliment. As a warning.
“Stand straighter,” the chamberlain says as he adjusts my collar for the third time. “You represent the house.”
“I am the house,” Father corrects from across the room without looking up. “He only carries it.”
I straighten anyway.
The hall is full—minor nobles, visiting magistrates, men who smell like ink and ambition. They look at me like I am a ledger already filled in, like the numbers matter more than the boy holding them together.
“Walk,” Father says.
I walk.
“Bow.”
I bow.
“Speak.”
I recite the prepared words about loyalty and prosperity and the honor of service. My voice doesn’t shake. That part at least I’ve learned.
When it’s over, the applause is polite and brief. Father nods once, satisfied.
“You did not embarrass us,” he says later in the antechamber. “That will suffice.”
Suffice. I nod. “Yes, Father.”
He turns away immediately, already discussing borders with someone else. The conversation moves on without me.
I slip out through a side corridor before anyone can stop me.
The training yard is empty except for dust and old echoes. I sit on the low stone wall and loosen my collar, breathing like I’ve been underwater too long.
“You vanished,” Evangeline says from behind me.
I don’t turn. “They were done with me.”
She comes around to sit beside me, her skirts tucked neatly, posture careful even when no one is watching.
“They praised you,” she says.
“No,” I reply. “They measured me.”
She considers that. “Did you pass?”
“For today.”
She smiles faintly. “That’s something.”
I snort. “You always make it sound smaller.”
“Because it is,” she says. “Compared to you.”
I glance at her. “You’re not supposed to say that.”
She shrugs. “I never do. Out loud.”
A pair of guards pass by the archway and glance our way. Evangeline stops speaking immediately, folding her hands in her lap. I mirror her, the habit automatic.
When they’re gone, I exhale. “They’re watching more now.”
“I know.”
“It’s worse than before.”
“I know,” she repeats.
I kick at the dirt. “They talk to me like I’m already someone else.”
“You are,” she says gently. “You’re becoming him.”
“I don’t want to be him,” I snap.
She flinches. “Alex—”
“I don’t,” I insist. “I don’t want to become someone who thinks pain is a lesson.”
Her eyes soften. “Then don’t.”
I laugh, sharp and humorless. “It’s not that simple.”
“Nothing here is,” she agrees. “But that doesn’t mean you disappear.”
I turn to her fully. “Do you ever feel like you’re shrinking?”
She hesitates. “Sometimes.”
“When?”
“When I’m quiet for too long,” she admits. “When I stop remembering what I wanted before I learned what was expected.”
I nod slowly. “That’s happening to me.”
She reaches for my hand without thinking, then stops herself when voices echo nearby. Her fingers hover, then retreat.
“Meet me later,” she says instead. “By the fig tree.”
“I might not be allowed.”
“Then I’ll wait,” she replies. “I always do.”
Lessons blur together after that.
Etiquette. History. Strategy.
“Your peers look to you,” a councilman tells me. “Do not appear weak.”
“What is weakness?” I ask before I can stop myself.
The room stills.
He smiles tightly. “Compassion without restraint.”
I write that down because I’m supposed to. The words feel wrong even on paper.
After lessons, Father summons me.
“You spoke out of turn,” he says.
“I asked a question.”
“You challenged authority.”
“I wanted to understand.”
He studies me, eyes sharp. “Understanding is not required. Obedience is.”
I clench my jaw. “Yes, Father.”
He steps closer. “Your sister makes you soft.”
Something snaps.
“No,” I say.
The word echoes.
Evangeline freezes by the door.
Father’s gaze hardens. “Repeat yourself.”
I breathe in. Slowly. Like Evangeline taught me.
“She makes me human,” I say carefully. “And that will make me a better Duke.”
Silence stretches.
For a moment, I think he’ll strike me.
Instead, he steps back. “Leave.”
I don’t wait to be told twice.
***
The fig tree is warm from the sun. Evangeline is already there, knees tucked to her chest.
“You’re late,” she says.
“I argued,” I reply.
She winces. “With who?”
“With Father.”
Her eyes widen. “What did you say?”
I sit beside her. “I told him you make me human.”
She lets out a breath. “That was foolish.”
“I know.”
“And brave,” she adds reluctantly.
I lean back against the trunk. “They want me to be perfect.”
“They always do.”
“I don’t feel perfect,” I admit. “I feel… empty.”
She looks at me then, really looks, and her voice drops. “You don’t have to be empty to carry something heavy.”
“What if I drop it?”
“Then we pick it up together,” she says. “Or we set it down.”
I shake my head. “He won’t allow that.”
“Fathers don’t allow many things,” she says quietly. “That doesn’t mean they decide everything.”
I study her face. She’s younger than me, but sometimes she sounds older than everyone.
“What do you want?” I ask her.
She blinks. “What?”
“For me,” I clarify. “Not for the house. Not for Father. For me.”
She doesn’t answer immediately.
“I want you to remember who you were before they named you,” she says finally. “Before you learned to stand like a statue.”
I huff. “That boy climbed walls and got bruises.”
“Yes,” she says. “And he laughed.”
I close my eyes. I can almost hear it.
“Promise me something,” she adds.
“What?”
“When they tell you there’s only one way to be strong… question it.”
I open my eyes and look at her. “You’re telling me to rebel.”
“I’m telling you to think,” she says. “Quietly. Like me.”
I smile despite myself. “You’re dangerous.”
She grins back. “Don’t tell Father.”
A bell rings in the distance.
Duty calls. I stand and offer her my hand. She takes it, squeezing once before letting go.
As we walk back toward the palace, shoulders squared, steps measured, I feel the weight settle again. But this time, it doesn’t crush me.
Because somewhere beneath the title, beneath the expectations, there’s still a boy who knows what he stands for.
And a sister who refuses to let him forget.