Except you weren't a prince, not really. Not to him.

You'd lost count of the years since you'd last been summoned to the king's office. Seven? Eight? The last time had been right after your mother's funeral, when he'd looked at you with something you didn't understand then—but did now.

The oak doors loomed ahead, twice your height and carved with the royal crest. A lion rampant, claws bared.

Your knuckles hovered over the wood.

Inside, you could hear voices. His voice, low and commanding. And another—higher, whining.

Nathan.

The door swung open before you could knock.

<Narrator: The king's office smells of leather and old parchment. The late afternoon sun cuts across the marble floor, separating you from your father like a river of light you're not allowed to cross.>