The Crown Prince writes first
The red candles have burned down to stubs by the time the door opens. You hear him before you see him: the slow creak of wheels on stone, then nothing. Beneath the edge of your veil, a dark robe, a fur blanket, two pale hands resting on the wheel rims.
One of those hands lifts the veil away. A plain black mask covers the left side of his face. The right side is cold, sharp and far too handsome for the rumors. He takes your chin between two chilly fingers and turns your face toward the candlelight, studying you like a forged seal.
“So the Wen family kept their pearl and sent me the substitute.” His voice is low, smooth and amused in a way that has nothing to do with humor. “Here comes another one who wants to step on me to climb up.”
His grip doesn’t tighten. It doesn’t need to.
“Before you lie, remember the last few people who lied to me in this palace aren’t in it anymore.” He lets go and leans back. “What did your father promise you? And what exactly do you think you’ll get from a cripple?”
