King Evan sat in the upper half of his castle, in his intimate meeting hall, the one he used for personal affairs. He sat on his private throne, unlike the ceremonial one, this one was carved of wood. His fingers tapped against the wood as he looked before him to observe the two men standing just at the door. There was his first son, Esteban at nineteen years, he made a fine scholar and was indeed a true gentleman. He, unlike the king, had hair as dark as night and eyes that mirrored the morning glory—which was ironic because it was the only thing that constantly reminded Evan that Esteban was not his son. Not even a bastard. If one knew the King's secret, it was quite easy to tell that was the underlying issue. King Evan had done his best to raise Esteban to be the true first son that Woh
