[Rynthall Estate—Ten Days Later—Nursery]
The nursery smelled faintly of warm milk and sweet jasmine. Sunlight spilled through the tall arched windows, pooling in molten gold across the plush carpets and a battlefield of colorful blocks.
Lucien lounged on the velvet couch like a king without a throne, though his gaze never left the little war playing out before him.
Elysia—a tiny hurricane disguised in a frilly dress, hair clip shaped like a storm cloud gleaming wickedly—ROLLED over the Empress's son with all the triumph of a conquering general surveying a captured city.
The boy—His Highness, the Prince—clutched a wooden horse to his chest, his small, chubby fist white-knuckled around it. Golden curls tumbled over his forehead in a halo far too innocent for the scene.
Then, without breaking eye contact, Elysia planted a chubby-fisted punch squarely into his arm—all while sucking her pacifier like the world's most unimpressed gladiator.
