“You’re the prince,” a little girl said, no more than seven winters. Her mop of curly hair framed her face like a lion’s mane, her stance bold, chin lifted. Behind her, a slightly older boy fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, his gaze darting between Demos and the ground. Demos glanced over his shoulder, as if looking for someone else. Then he pointed at his chest. “Who, me?” “Yes, you!” This girl was younger than the first, and she clutched a threadbare doll as she peered out from behind the bold girl’s shoulder. Beside her, twin boys gripped each other’s hands tightly, their excitement
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