The morning air in the Lower Bailey was crisp, smelling sharply of woodsmoke, damp earth, and the distinct, metallic tang of the armorers' anvils ringing in the distance.
For Prince Casimir, however, the air tasted entirely of miracles.
He was sitting on a sturdy wooden crate at the edge of the secondary training ring, a massive, leather-bound volume of Roman history resting open on his lap. He was not reading a single word of it. His dark brown eyes were fixed with absolute, unblink