When Constantine looks up at the man, he sees the face of someone dissatisfied with how slowly his campaign is moving. A ruler who wants more. Someone with something missing. Someone … disgusted.

The young Constantine swallows and looks at his father. “Do you miss Mother?” he asks.

The Premier takes a sip from his glass before he shakes his head. “Why?” he mutters. “The dead are useless.”

The memory ends. I return to the room as it is now, with Constantine the Premier leaning against the table, disheveled, the sleeves of his robe pushed up and wrinkled, my hand near the keys. If he is uncomfortable with me having seen a glimpse of his past, he doesn’t show it. Perhaps the wine has dampened how much he cares.

Did your mother die in childbirth? I ask him.

Yes. I was meant to have a third brother. Constantine lets out a scornful chuckle. My father’s hopes and dreams.

When I don’t respond, he continues. The older my father got, the more he realized he wouldn’t live to see Karensa’s borders stretch from sea to sea. He wouldn’t finish what he started. Worst of all, he thought I—his poor, fragile firstborn—didn’t have the ability to carry on his legacy.

Another memory sears through our bond, and suddenly I glimpse a young Constantine pounding on the door of a small closet, screaming to be let out, while his father snaps at him from the other side. About some failed lesson. Some poor performance on horseback. Some weakness. I see Constantine curled on the floor of the closet as the light under the slit changes, until finally Caitoman lets him out. I see Constantine facing another boy in a courtyard. The old Premier kneels beside Constantine, telling him how to strike the other boy. Constantine ends up bloodied and bruised and the loser. The Premier leaves in disgust.

And what about your brother? I ask.

Constantine glances at me. Caitoman is my half brother.

Caitoman is a bastard.

Of course he is. He and Constantine look so little alike; the old Premier had reacted to the young Caitoman with such dismissive disgust.

Who is his mother? I ask.

Constantine looks away again. Who knows?

Caitoman cannot inherit the throne without a proper lineage, and Constantine was considered incapable. The old Premier had been counting on his wife’s second child before she died in childbirth. The Tyrus line was in danger of disappearing, erasing any hope for the Federation’s Infinite Destiny.

Your father was cruel to you, then, I say. And to Caitoman.

He says nothing for a moment. I just felt sorry for my brother, Constantine replies softly.

The memory cuts off abruptly and I’m left to stare at the young Premier’s thin back, his wiry frame still bent over the desk. It’s no wonder he fears death as he does, why today’s assassination attempt has shaken him to his core. His mother had died young, managing only to touch her eldest son’s life briefly before leaving him. His father had died with unfinished business, tormented by the thought that no one could carry on his legacy.