Bab 93: the birthright we (refused).

Lynn was three years old.

Warm light filtered into the room, where half a dozen people were crowded around a bed. Sitting upright, a woman with curly black hair held a newborn babe to her breast. She smiled down at the baby, who slept peacefully in her arms.

A firm hand landed on Lynn's shoulder, and she looked up to see her uncle standing over her. Unlike the flaming locks that fell around her shoulders, the big bear of a man had a shaggy blond mane that almost reached his waist. He looked intimidating, but in reality, he was Lynn's favorite person—more than her mother, or her father, or her mean older brother.

"That's Damian," Cromwell said, squeezing Lynn's shoulder gently. "One day, he's going to be your king."