“That is what everyone thought,” Erik says, idly taking a glass of red wine from one of the servers. I wonder if anyone else is looking close enough to see how the glass quivers in his hand, the dark liquid rippling like the surface of a pond when a school of fish swims beneath. “Imagine their surprise when the last emperor’s youngest daughter returned to them after being held by the Kalovaxians for two decades. And imagine her son’s surprise when she passed her claim to the throne on to him.”
He pauses, but no one else speaks. “The son was me,” he adds. “In case that wasn’t clear.”
“You have my congratulations,” King Etristo says dryly. “But the fact remains that Goraki is a wasteland with no money and no troops. You are trifling with our time.”
Erik shrugs, though his eyes dance acros
