"That cannot be true," Edric said, his composure finally cracking.
The King's mouth curved faintly, but there was no real amusement in it. "On the sole assurance of your son, who insisted she was not the same person?" he asked, the sarcasm in his tone thin but unmistakable.
Edric swallowed hard and shook his head, more to steady himself than in denial. "I was informed by sources of the utmost reliability that she perished alongside her parents that night. The Archduchess's assassins were said to have slain both mother and daughter, for the child carried the bloodline of—"
"I met her five years ago, Edric."
The King's voice had gone quiet, and with it something in him seemed to tighten. As he spoke, his hand trembled faintly, not from weakness but from the weight of a memory he had clearly never made peace with.
"I, too, believed she was another," he said. "I thought the real one had died."
"Five years ago?" Edric repeated, stunned.
