You sit and listen.
He can't be more than 13... your reflection in the puddle places you
at least at 16. You share the same traits- dark eyes, hair and skin.
Something about the way he pauses is tantalizingly familiar.
"The truth is," he begins, "...is I am the second in
line to the throne of this kingdom." He takes a deep breath.
"And you, my sister are first."
Impassively, you hold the boy's gaze. It is becoming hard to
concentrate with the growing pulsing of your head wound. Do you
believe him?
The chair offered you turns out to be every bit as soft as it looks.
Sinking back and pushing the pain from your injuries from your mind,
you focus on the boy.
