Years later, the palace had grown no calmer. It had only changed form.
Nero was twelve now, which meant he had matured from toddler menace into a far more refined and dangerous category of problem: a boy with height coming in too fast, confidence that had never once known proper restraint, and the catastrophic blessing of a father who found escalation educational.
His sister, Nayra Zaria, at nine, had inherited none of that particular madness.
Which was perhaps why Chris was so close to her.
At that exact moment, she stood beside him near the open balcony doors with her arms folded and her dark eyes narrowed in shared judgment, and Chris, not for the first time, found himself wondering when exactly Nero had surpassed him in height.
The answer, apparently, was recently and without permission.
At twelve, the boy was already seven foot two.
Chris deeply resented this.
