He arrived at the great gates just as the morning bells rang out across the city, their bronze voices rolling over the rooftops like thunder. The guards at the gate eyed him—a stranger with sharp, narrow eyes and a scarred leather jerkin—and asked his business.

The palace rose ahead of him, all pale stone and soaring arches, banners snapping in the wind. Servants hurried across the courtyards. Courtiers in silks and velvets clustered in the colonnades, their voices a low hum of gossip and ambition. Kenzo kept his chin up and his hand near his sword hilt, though he knew better than to draw it here.

A steward met him in the great hall, a thin man with a waxed mustache and an expression of perpetual mild disapproval.

The prince.

Tall, slim, dressed in whites and silvers that caught the light. A bandage of pristine white wrapped around his eyes, tied neatly at the back of his head. He stood perfectly still, head tilted slightly, as if listening to something no one else could hear.

Kenzo did not know yet what to make of him. A blind prince. A ruler who could not see his own kingdom.

But the king was still speaking, and Kenzo forced his attention back to the throne.