Anaïs sat in the first row behind my father and, despite my best efforts, my gaze kept tracking to her. Her grandmother, the Dowager Duchesse, had forced her to wear a dress, and Anaïs was twitching irritably, casting the occasional sideways glance at her sister, who was deep in conversation with Marc. The twins had been forbidden from the throne room after the last prank they’d played, but I knew they’d be waiting for us at the boat. Anaïs caught my gaze and then crossed her eyes, and I bit my lip to keep from grinning.

“Tristan.”

My attention snapped back to my father, then to the timer, the last few grains of sand falling to the tiny white peak below. I shoved a piece onto a different square, my stomach clenching a second later as I saw the error. My skin prickled as my father’s magic manifested with his anger, but I kept my eyes on the board, too afraid to look up.

In one swift move, he snatched up my piece and hurled it across the throne room where it shattered against the wall. “Everyone out,” he bellowed, and the court fled, Anaïs the only one brave enough to hesitate, but even then, it was only for a second.

The doors to the throne room slammed shut, and my father backhanded the Guerre boards, sending pieces tumbling across the floor. “You said he was improving,” he demanded of my aunt, whose hand rested on my shoulder.

“He is,” she replied. “It’s not a matter of his intelligence or aptitude, Thibault, it’s a matter of interest. His heart is not in the game.”

I felt his eyes burning into me, but I refused to look up. “And how,” he asked, “do you expect to rule without these skills?”

“It’s just a stupid game,” I muttered. “It’s not real.”

My aunt’s grip tightened, not that I needed her signal to know that I was pushing my luck.

“‘Just a stupid game,’” my father repeated, then, “It’s not a game, you fool; it’s a tool. A way to train the mind and develop focus, and to be King of Trollus, you must master it. You must be the best at it.”

I fought the urge to take my mother’s hand. With her here, his temper would remain in check. “If you’re the best–” I lifted my face “–then why aren’t you teaching me?”

His jaw worked from side to side, and for the first and only time, he looked away before I did. It was a stupid question, I told myself. He doesn’t have time for you.

“Because,” he finally replied, “how will you ever beat me if I know all of your moves?”

My heart sank, and though it was childish, I reached for my mother’s hand, squeezing it tightly.

“He needs motivation to play the game, Thibault,” my aunt said over my head. “And you must be the one to provide it.”

I listened to him sigh, wishing I wasn’t such a disappointment to him. Wishing he had time for me as he once had. But he only turned and walked out of the room, never once looking back.