The man cringed as he tried to get up.
“Stay down,” the commander ordered. He eyed the crowd. “Has someone fetched a physician?”
“Yes, sir,” a soldier said. “He should be here soon.”
The commander focused back on the bleeding man. “How did the fight begin?”
Blood smeared the man’s lips and chin. When he spat out a gob of blood, a tooth came, too. “He wanted to spar.”
“And you agreed?”
“Yes.”
The commander’s eyebrow lifted. “Did you think that wise?”
The man’s mouth twisted, his face swollen and bruised. “He was insistent and . . . With respect, sir, I wanted to test myself.”
“Your behavior was beyond idiotic—it was suicidal. You know his reputation.” The commander scanned the gathered crowd. “No one is allowed to spar with Wilford Lines. Is that understood?”
Mumbled replies sounded around Clare.
The commander looked back at the soldier. “Was Lines inebriated?”
“Yes, sir.”
The commander’s mouth thinned.
Clare bit her lip, sending a furtive glance back to the field. Bennick no longer leaned over Wilf, but he still sat on his chest, talking rapidly. Venn rubbed one eye, his other hand braced on Wilf’s knee, and Cardon was crouched on his other side.
The physician arrived to tend the soldier and the commander scanned the faces around him. “I hope you’ve all learned from this man’s stupidity. As for Sir Lines . . . I’ll discuss disciplinary actions with Captain Markam.”
A soldier near Clare grunted. “Disciplinary actions? Anyone else would be dismissed.”
The commander looked over his shoulder. “Do I hear disagreement?”
“No, sir,” they all chorused.
“Good.” The commander brushed past Clare without a glance, making his way toward Wilf.
Once he was out of earshot, a soldier snorted. “Nothing will happen. Captain Markam won’t punish Lines, and the commander won’t go against his son. He never does.”
Clare stared, the man’s words not making any sense. Her eyes cut to Bennick and she studied his profile, denial spiraling through her even as she searched for proof.
As if he could feel her gaze, Bennick glanced at her. And when his blue eyes met hers, she knew the soldier’s words were true. Impossible, but true.
Bennick was the commander’s son.
Clare and Venn sat in a deserted corner of the royal library. Light filtered through the dusty window that stretched up the wall beside them and bookshelves towered around them, the old wood bearing thousands of leather books. The dark wood table they sat at was solid, worn smooth with years of use. Maps of Devendra and Mortise were spread out, but Clare couldn’t focus on them.
“Venn?”
“Hmm?”
The wooden chair creaked when she shifted. “The commander. Is he . . .?”
Venn glanced up from the book he held—Zennorian Weaponry and Battle Strategy. “Is he what?”
“Is the commander Bennick’s father?” The question had burned in her chest since yesterday afternoon. She hadn’t dared voice it until now. It felt like prying. Which, admittedly, it was.
Venn laid his open book on the table, his gaze suddenly narrowed. “Why do you ask?”
She fingered the edge of the table. “I heard some soldiers on the field yesterday, while you were busy with Wilf.”
“I do recall the moment,” he said dryly, fingering the purple bruise surrounding his left eye.
She pursed her lips. “Is he Bennick’s father?”
Venn sighed. “Yes.”
Though expected, the confirmation still hit her hard. She’d seen Bennick and the commander together—watched them exchange words—and nothing in those interactions hinted at a familial relationship. She’d known the commander had a son. That sad room, long abandoned with the fabric panther and the chipped wooden blocks had clearly belonged to someone. But Bennick? It seemed impossible. She couldn’t reconcile that the man who had forced her to become the decoy was also Bennick’s father.
“Why is it a secret?” she asked.
“It’s not.”
Her forehead creased. “Then why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m asking something wrong, or . . .”
Venn lifted a brow. “Private?”
She flushed, but didn’t look away. “Yes. Something personal.”
Venn nudged the book closed and folded his arms atop it, his elbows resting on the table. “Because for Bennick, it is personal.” He expelled a breath. “You’ll hear rumors, I’m sure. I only ask—as his friend and yours—that you don’t pursue them.” He hesitated, but then reopened his book, clearly ending the conversation.
Clare turned back to the maps and rested her palm over the pulse in her neck, trying not to focus on the curiosity still beating through her. She tried to concentrate on the task at hand—memorizing the geography of two kingdoms—when Venn suddenly came to his feet.
Clare lifted her head and blinked as she saw Prince Grandeur round a corner, headed straight for them. She lurched to her feet and dipped into a bow along with Venn.
“Good day, Miss Ellington.” Prince Grandeur came to a stop beside the table, a bodyguard on either side of him. In his hands was a small leather-bound book so worn Clare couldn’t make out the title. He quickly waved Venn and Clare up from their bow, his focus on her. “I must say, I’m grateful our paths crossed. I’ve been meaning to seek you out.”
Surprise flitted through her. “You have?”
He nodded. “I wanted to make sure you’re settling in all right.”
“That’s very kind, Your Highness.”
“Please, call me Grandeur. And it’s the least I can do, considering the great service you’re doing for my family. Fates know we’re not the easiest to get along with.”
“The king and princess can be a little overwhelming,” she admitted.
“That’s a delicate way of putting it.” He glanced at his men and gestured for them to step back. They did without hesitation. Venn, on the other hand, remained beside the table until the prince eyed him. “I only wish a brief word with Miss Ellington,” Grandeur said. Venn glanced at Clare but deferred to the prince and retreated down the row of shelves. He kept in sight, but wasn’t close enough to hear the prince’s soft snort. “Bodyguards.” Grandeur shook his head. “They never give us a moment’s
