Owen
“I gave you three days,” Father chastises as Diego weighs down the four corners of a map of our kingdom on the conference table in front of us. Not one of the three of us has sat yet.
No matter Father’s disappointed façade, I know he’s eyeing the same things I am: Diego’s black eye, his cut lip, the swollen knuckles of his right hand, and the sliced fabric of his shirt near his belly. Every time the fabric shifts, I watch the skin it reveals underneath. I haven’t yet seen any blood, so I hope that means whatever cut his shirt didn’t break any skin.
He may have once poisoned me, but he’s still my brother.
“The extra day will be worth the information I gathered,” Diego promises. He straightens away from the map now that it’s arranged for Father and I to see, each of us standing be
