The royal archives smelled of aged parchment and secrets. I'd spent countless hours down here, but tonight felt different. My fingers trembled slightly as I pushed deeper into the restricted section, past shelves that hadn't seen visitors in decades.
"Prince Evander, Your Highness, I really must protest," said Master Bartholomew, the elderly royal archivist trailing behind me. "These sections are sealed for a reason."
I didn't slow my pace. "By whose authority are they sealed, Master Bartholomew?"
"Why, by order of your great-grandfather, King—"
"Precisely," I interrupted, turning to face him. "My blood. My heritage. My right to know."
At twenty-two, I wasn't like other royal princes. Where my cousins pursued military glory or political alliances, I'd always been drawn to books and history. My grandfather King Theron often joked that I'd been born in the wrong century.
