A Marriage of Swords
He was at the door in two strides, yanking it open.
In the grand hallway stood Adelaide, wringing her hands, and facing her was a man who seemed a ghost torn from a happier past. He was tall, once broad-shouldered but now gaunt, his fine clothes hanging loosely. His hair, the same shade as Makil’s but lank and unkempt, framed a face that was a ruin of handsomeness—hollow cheeks, shadowed eyes, and a smile that was a grotesque parody of warmth.
“Brother!” the man exclaimed, his voice too loud, cracking with a strange energy. “And you must be one of the lovely contenders! I am Charles. The *other* prince. The one no one talks about anymore.”