A year later, the palace assigned to Seraphina was no longer quiet as Amara remembered.
It was quiet with interruptions.
A baby's short cry from the nursery. The hurried steps of attendants who had learned that His Imperial Majesty could face rebellions without blinking but looked personally betrayed every time his son hiccupped. The low murmur of physicians, wet nurses, tutors, guards, and Seraphina's household adjusting around the existence of a child whose birth had changed the palace without making it louder in the old Pais way.
Silas was three months old.
He had Goliath's golden hair.
Seraphina's blue eyes.
And the terrifying ability to reduce the most powerful man in the world to a creature of ridiculous patience.
Amara watched from the cushioned window seat while Goliath held the baby near the open garden doors. Afternoon light spilled over them, catching in Silas's soft hair and along the gold embroidery at Goliath's cuffs.
