64

"Their Highness is a master of disguise, you know—the most highborn thespian in Brenton."

"I'd heard tales of them mingling with the lower orders," says an orator, shamelessly gesturing at himself, "but assumed them apocryphal."

Your tongue goes thick, and it's not just the gummy porridge. "What…" You swallow. "What does the Heir look like?"

"On the tall side, copper eyes, snow-blonde hair, piercing gaze…" the orator ticks off his fingers. Your heart beats faster.

As they continue gossiping, you replay the events of the evening. How could it be that your unusual companion—with whom you bested a trio of roustabouts without receiving so much as a lasting scratch—should also be next in line for the Throne?

"Their Highness should be back at Westfenster by the time we return to your stomping-grounds," the orator says, his envy a palpable aura about him. "Perhaps you should see if you can get a glimpse of them?"

You concur, thoughts racing. You can only imagine what the future might hold with such an ally at your side.

"I'm keen to meet them indeed," you agree.

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