He was small, but he stood tall. As he talked with the gentlemen who had come to see him, he fell into a stance not unlike his late father’s—his hands clasped gently behind his back, his chin raised. As he listened to the men, he had a slight smile on his lips, warm but stern. If you saw any other little boy stand like that, you’d say that he was playing king. But with young Martin, you could see that he wasn’t playing.
“Anyone would be a fool to deny he’s of royal blood,” Madam Krison whispered, “Barely past his ninth naming and he carries himself with more grace and maturity than men with twenty or thirty names. More understanding too.”
Margaret gave a small smile as she watched her son across the room. “He is something special, isn’t he?”
Madam Krison placed a warm hand on Margaret’s knee. “He’s more than that. He’s not just special. He’s exactly what this country needs.”
“I’d like to think so—“ Margaret offered softly as she couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride for her son. “I’d really like to think so,” and she turned back to her stitching.