There are many unpleasant things in this world.
Cheap perfume.
Bad handwriting.
Nobles who thought speaking slowly made them sound intelligent.
Mages who could barely light a candle yet acted as if mana had personally birthed them from the heavens.
And, apparently, ancient mouths beneath the Capital that knew how to imitate my son's voice.
I had been tolerant of many things since arriving in the Capital. Too tolerant, some might argue. I had endured a Jinn forcing himself into my family tree, a child being integrated into my bloodline through circumstances even fantasy novels might reject as absurd, scandal sheets treating my dignity like public entertainment, and a Crown Prince becoming interesting at the worst possible time.
Yet there were lines.
Thin ones, perhaps. Lines drawn with refined ink instead of crude charcoal. But lines nonetheless.
Using Spiro's voice had crossed one of them.
