Itkovian studied the young man, and saw what he had not expected to see. ‘First Child,’ he said. ‘There is despair within you. I will take it from you, sir, and with it your burdens.’ Anaster jolted as if he had been physically struck. He drew his knees up, climbed onto the seat of the throne, face twitching. A hand closed on the strange obsidian dagger in his belt, then flinched away as if the stone was hot. His mother screamed, clawed up her son’s outstretched arm. Snarling, he pulled himself free. She sank down to the floor, curled up. ‘I am not your father,’ Itkovian continued, ‘but I
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