POV: Evangeline
“Give it back, Marc!”
Adrian’s shout hits me before the morning bells do. It rips down the corridor, sharp enough to make the maids freeze mid-curtsy.
I close my eyes for a second. Five years, two princes, one crown…and somehow this is still how most mornings begin.
I step out of our chamber, tightening the belt of my robe. “What are we fighting over this time?”
Marc stands at the top of the stairs, chin tilted like a miniature king, holding a carved wooden knight just out of Adrian’s reach. Adrian is pink with fury, curls wild, fingers clawing at the air.
“He took my knight,” Adrian says, breathless. “Grandfather gave it to me.”
“It was crooked on the shelf,” Marc says calmly. “I was fixing it.”
“You were hiding it!”
I walk toward them, bare feet silent on the stone. “Marc. Adrian. Look at me, not at each other.”
They both turn. Same eyes, same jaw as their father. Same storm.
“Marc,” I say, gently but firm, “is it yours?”
His fingers tighten around the toy. There’s a flicker of guilt, but pride wins. “No. But he leaves it everywhere. He doesn’t take care of anything.”
Adrian surges forward. “That’s not true, I—”
I raise a hand. “Adrian. Let me finish.”
He bites his lip, vibrating with impatience.
I crouch so I’m eye level with them. “You are brothers, not enemies.”
I hold out my hand to Marc. “Give it back.”
He hesitates, then presses the knight into my palm without looking at his brother.
I place it carefully into Adrian’s hands. “And you will put it somewhere safe when we go down to breakfast. If I step on it again in the dark, I’ll throw it out myself. Agreed?”
“Yes, Mama,” Adrian mutters.
“Marc?” I ask.
He draws himself up. “I was only trying to keep him from losing it.”
“I know,” I say. “Next time, use your words, not his things.” I cup his cheek for a second. “Now both of you go to the dining hall.”
They trudge off side by side, not quite together, not quite apart. I watch them until they turn the corner.
From behind me, one of the older maids whispers to another, “They’re so lively, Your Majesty. It’s good. Means the family is strong.”
I force a small smile and nod, but inside, the words scrape. Strong is not the first word I would choose.
The dining hall is already laid when we enter. Trays of warm bread, butter, fruit, eggs. Silver glints. The servants glide out quietly as we take our seats.
Adrian talks to fill the silence. “Can we go to the training yard after lessons? Sir Rowan said we could watch the guards spar if we finish our writing.”
Marc snorts softly. “You just want to see swords. You don’t even hold your practice blade right.”
“At least I don’t fall on my back when I swing,” Adrian fires back.
I tap my spoon lightly against my cup. “If I hear one insult before you finish breakfast, I will personally supervise three extra pages of handwriting for both of you.”
They both groan.
“That’s not fair,” Marc says. “I didn’t start—”
“Royal life is rarely fair,” I answer. “Eat.”
They obey, grumbling under their breath, but at least the quarrel dulls to mutters instead of sparks.
The doors at the far end slam open. Sebastian strides in, cloak sweeping behind him. The servants straighten, chins lowered. Even my sons sit up a little taller.
“Good morning, Father,” Marc says quickly.
Adrian echoes, “Good morning, Father,” just a beat too late, as if racing his brother to the words.
Sebastian gives them each a nod. “Marc. Adrian.” His voice is smooth, distant. “You are ready for your tutor?”
Adrian glances at the untouched half of his bread. “We just started—”
“You should have risen earlier,” Sebastian says. “Discipline is learned now, not later.”
I feel my jaw clench. “They did rise early,” I say. “They were just busy arguing over a carved knight instead of bread.”
Sebastian’s gaze flicks to me, then back to the boys. “Arguing? Again?”
“They’re eight,” I remind him softly. “And they are brothers.”
“All the more reason,” he says, “to learn how to coexist without shouting.”
Marc’s shoulders pull back as if bracing for battle. “We’re fine, Father.”
“You are not fine,” Sebastian replies. “You’re loud.”
The table goes quiet. The boys stare down at their plates.
I stand, pushing my chair back. “Will you sit and eat with us?”
Sebastian glances at the door like a man already halfway gone. “I can’t. The council is waiting. There are trade disputes with the southern ports, and the Astorian envoy arrived last night. They expect a decision by midday.”
“You’ve missed dinner three nights in a row,” I say. I don’t raise my voice, but each word is edged. “And now breakfast too.”
“As I said.” His patience thins. “The kingdom doesn’t govern itself.”
“It did not always feel like this,” I answer. “Like we are competing with your crown for a moment of you.”
Marc and Adrian stare at me, then at him, wide-eyed.
Sebastian exhales through his nose. “Evangeline, not now.”
“If not now, when?” I ask. “When they’re grown and you don’t recognize them?”
Adrian flinches. “Mama…”
I regret saying it in front of them, but the words are out, hot and bitter. Sebastian’s expression shutters.
He turns to the boys instead. “You will listen to your mother and obey your tutor. I will try to join you for supper.” The word try hangs between us like a lie we’ve all agreed to pretend is truth.
“Yes, Father,” Marc says.
Adrian opens his mouth, then shuts it again, eyes shiny.
Sebastian bends and presses a brief kiss to the top of each of their heads. He does not touch me. His hand brushes the back of my chair, stops, then drops.
“I’ll see you later,” he says.
“For the council?” I ask. “Do you want me there?”
He hesitates. “No. It is routine. There’s nothing you need to worry about.”
That is not an answer. It never is.
“Very well,” I say, forcing calm.
He leaves without looking back. For a long moment, the only sound in the room is the tick of the clock over the hearth.
“Is Father angry with you?” Adrian whispers.
“No,” I say, too quickly. “He’s angry with work.”
Marc watches me closely, wiser than he should be. “He used to laugh more,” he says quietly. “Remember? When we were in Meridia. When we…when we weren’t here.”
I squeeze their fingers. “Finish eating. If you behave, I’ll speak to your father about watching the guards spar this afternoon.”
Their eyes light up at that. “Truly?” Adrian asks.
“I said I will speak to him,” I remind them. “Not that he will say yes.”
“That means you’ll argue with him for us,” Marc says, a hint of admiration creeping into his tone.
“It means I will remind him that his sons are not items on a list,” I answer.
After they’re led away by their tutor, I slip into the solar off the hall. From its tall windows, I can see the city unfolding below—markets opening, banners fluttering, people moving like threads in a tapestry. To them, we are the perfect picture: a beloved king, a serene queen, two healthy heirs.
“Your Majesties are so blessed,” the servants murmur in the corridors. “Such a beautiful family.”
They do not see the way Sebastian’s eyes slide past me at night, fixed on reports and maps. They do not hear the way the boys whisper to each other in the dark, wondering why their father smiles more at councilmen than at them.
But I do.