Kadie has a scar now. A straight line, cutting one eyebrow short on the outside and skipping over her eye. It’s darkest over her cheekbone before it fades to nothing above her jaw. A fine line, nearly invisible, except that the best-trained and best-paid physicks couldn’t make it actually invisible. So it stands out.
“Make me a crown, and I shall wear it,” a Clan Heir had said once, and subsequently been quoted a thousand times in a thousand histories.
Supposedly, she had been standing in front of her father, making her case for why the throne should pass to her instead of her twin brother. How she said it – whether her tone was so light as to indicated that she might wear two or three at jaunty angles, or whether it was so dull as to say she wouldn’t have even noticed it on her head – was lost to time. Scholars generally agreed, however, that it was the most arrogant thing a young heir had ever spoken in public.
It was her only argument in a dozen pages of recordings, and she never explained herself. Yet, her father named her heir less than a day later. The scholars agreed that he was an idiot.