Prince Beckett Valdamar, as it turned out, was not meant to be a warrior. He was not meant to be a poet.
He was meant to be an absolute bureaucratic terror.
Kaia sat at the large mahogany desk in her newly established private study, watching her "Chancellor" with a mixture of profound awe and slight alarm.
Beckett was surrounded by mountains of parchment, wax-sealed ledgers, and imperial tax records. His cravat was entirely undone, his chocolate-brown hair was a chaotic mess of curls, and his fingers were stained with black ink. He looked more alive than he had in the entire three years Kaia had known him.
Standing rigidly by the door, Captain Silas Thorne watched the younger Prince with an expression of quiet, overwhelming adoration.
"I found it," Beckett announced, his voice cracking with sheer, unadulterated triumph as he slammed a heavy ledger onto the desk. "I actually found it."
Kaia leaned forward, sipping her black tea. "Found what, Beckett?"
