Michael

Summer

“I don’t think my parents could be any happier with the idea,” Deacon says, walking by my side, his face shielded from the sunlight by a hood.

“You don’t think it’s a little fast?” I ask, smirking as I squint into the uncommon sunlight beating down on the field between the castle and Ravenfell.

“You married Princess Faye in… what, a matter of weeks?”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“I am right because if you know, you know. I know that I love her, and she loves me, and she’s blood born, like me, and…”

“She’s pregnant already, isn’t she?” I laugh, and beneath the shadow of his hood,...