It was the story—true—of how her own father had come to the Monsean court as a boy. He’d come begging, wearing an eye patch, saying nothing of who he was or where he was from. He’d charmed the king and queen with tall tales he’d invented, tales about a land where the animals were violently colored, and the buildings were wide and tall as mountains, and glorious armies rose out of rock. No one had known who his parents were, or why he wore an eye patch, or why he’d told such stories, but he’d been loved. The king and queen, childless, had adopted him as their own son. When Leck had turned
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