The gardens shimmered in the high heat of summer, the air thick with the perfume of climbing roses and the hum of ether lamps disguised as lanterns in the trees. The Capital spread in glittering towers beyond the palace walls, but here the sound was softer: the clink of silver against porcelain, the low rush of a fountain, and the faintest giggles of a boy who thought he'd gotten away with stealing a second tart.
"Arik," Gabriel said without looking up from slicing the peaches, his tone calm and natural, "put that back on the plate."
Almost six years old, the prince froze in his chair, golden eyes wide with mock innocence. "I didn't take anything."
Damian leaned back in his chair, sunlight catching on the gold at his collar, his smile small and entirely merciless. "Your hands are sugared."
Arik glanced down at his sticky fingers, scowled, and shoved the tart back on the plate with all the drama of a general retreating under fire. "It was too small anyway."
