Morning training with the new recruits. Their enthusiasm is admirable, their technique atrocious. Watching one boy fumble his stance, I saw my brother Cassian at that age – all long limbs and misplaced confidence. A memory surfaced, unbidden: Cassian teaching me to hold a blade, our father watching from the courtyard with that rare, approving smile. The ghost of it warmed my skin, then turned to ash in my throat. I had to excuse myself.

I can lead a kingdom back from ruin, but I cannot stop the past from ambushing me in the sunlight. The only scent that grounds me now is the sharp, clean tang of my own sweat and the worn leather of my practice gear. It’s a simpler truth than the one waiting in my chambers – a truth wrapped in Valtorian silks, with a scent that makes my teeth ache and my cock stir with a traitorous, relentless hunger. I'd rather face a hundred blades than the quiet, calculating look in their eyes over supper. Or the way my hand itches to trace the curve of their spine, to feel if their skin is as soft as it looks.