There was a time when the second Prince had been a statue of beauty, as if carved by She Who Brings Mercy and Love herself. Every house in the eastern provinces had once whispered his name, their daughters or sons boasting of a night under his gaze. His beauty had been a weapon that could struck all.
That splendor was gone.
Now, Mavius sat alone among the relics of his vanished charm, a cup of red wine trembling in his scarred hand. The mirrors of the chamber had been shrouded long ago; he could not stand to see what looked back. Still, he needed no reflection to know the truth. He saw it in the way courtiers flinched, in how servants found reasons to bow from afar, in the silence that followed wherever he went.
