His grandfather's rooms were designed entirely with mirrors; with what seemed an

incalculable number of these small, reflective tiles. Every inch of the interior space, high
and low, glittered with arrangements of star-like patterns, all interwoven into a series of
larger geometric shapes. The soaring domed ceilings glimmered from high above, a
mirage of infinity that seemed to reach the heavens. Two large windows
were thrown open to grant entrée to the sun: sharp shafts of light penetrated the
room, further illuminating constellation after constellation of shattered glow. Even the
floors were covered in mirrored tiles, though the delicate work was protected by a series
of rich, intricately woven rugs.
The overall effect was ethereal; Kamran imagined it was not unlike standing in the belly
of a star. The room itself was sublime, but the effect it had on its occupants was
perhaps the greater accomplishment. A visitor stepped into this room and felt at once
exalted, transported to the heavens. Even Kamran was not immune to its effects.
His mother, however, grew mournful.
“Oh, my dear,” she said, spinning around the room, a hand clasped to her chest. “This
should've all been mine one day.”
Kamran watched as his mother peered into the nearest wall, admiring herself; she
fluttered her fingers, making her jewels sparkle and dance. Kamran always found it a bit
disorienting, entering this space. It inspired a feeling of magnificence, yes, but he found
the feeling chased always by a feeling of inadequacy. He felt his small footprint in the
world never more acutely than when surrounded by true strength, and he never felt this
feeling with more precision than when he drew nearer his grandfather.
The prince looked around then for a sign of the man.
Kamran peered through a crack in one of the adjoining doors, the one he knew led to
the king's bedchamber, and was weighing the impertinence of searching the bedroom
when Firuzeh tugged on his arm.
Kamran looked back.
“Life is so unfair, is it not?” she said, her eyes shining with feeling. “Our dreams so
easily shattered?”
A muscle jumped in Kamran's jaw. “Indeed, Mother. Father's death was a great
tragedy.”
She made a noncommittal noise.
Often, Kamran thought he could not leave this palace quickly enough. He did not resent
his inheritance to the throne, but neither did he relish it. No, Kamran knew too well the
gore that accompanied glory.
He'd never once hoped to be king.
As a child, people spoke to Kamran of his position as if he were blessed, fortunate to be
in line for a title that first demanded the deaths of the two people he cared for most in
the world. It had always seemed to him a disturbing business, and never more so than
the day his father's head had been returned home without its body.
Kamran was eleven years old.
He was expected to show strength even then; only days later he was forced to attend a
ceremony declaring him the direct heir to the throne. He was but a child, commanded to
stand beside the mutilated remains of his father and show no pain, no fear⠀”only fury.
It was the day his grandfather gave him his first sword, the day his life changed forever.
It was the day a boy was forced to leap, unformed, into the body of a man.
Kamran closed his eyes, felt the press of a cold blade against his cheek.
“Lost in your head, darling?”
He looked at his mother, irritated not merely with her,
but with himself. Kamran did not know the precise shape of the discomfort that addled
him; he could not fathom an explanation for his disordered thoughts. He only knew he
felt every day a creeping dread, and worse: he feared such uncertainty of mind would
only exacerbate matters, for these lost moments, Kamran knew, could cost him his life.
His mother had proven that just now.
She seemed to read his mind.