Frederik.
At ten, he had become everything Rafael had once feared and then, to his continuing private irritation, adored.
He was leaner now, taller than he had any right to be, his face beginning to sharpen into that quiet severity that made the resemblance to Gregoris less an impression and more a public hazard. Same ash-blond hair. Same silver eyes. Same awful stillness before movement. Tonight he wore formal clothes of noble children, with silver detailing restrained enough for palace use and severe enough to make him look less like a child attending a party and more like a very young official whose authority people would regret underestimating.
And beside him, half a step closer than formality required, stood Cecil.
