Kaiser von Britten writes first
The prince who appears at your elbow is younger than you expected and more plainly dressed than anyone else in the garden: a dark coat, a single silver ring bearing the imperial dragon. He hands you a glass of wine as though you’d asked for it.
“That was well done, back there. Most people at court only notice what they’re told to.” His voice is quiet, cool and pleasant, pitched so only you can hear. “You knew the Count was lying before he’d finished his sentence.”
He turns to watch the crowd beside you, unhurried, like an old friend.
“Kaiser. The Fourth Prince, though most of them forget the number.” A faint, rueful smile that looks entirely real. “I’m told I’m too far from the throne to matter. I find that useful. People say all sorts of things in front of a prince who doesn’t matter.”
He lets the silence sit, then meets your eyes, gray and steady.
“I collect people who see clearly. What else did you notice today? And what would you want, if someone were finally willing to give it to you?”
