Alix tosses me a shiny red apple as we cross through the kitchens. I catch it and bite into its crisp flesh as he grabs one for himself from the bowl on the worn wooden table in the center of the room. The juice rolls down my chin; I wipe it with the sleeve of my shirt. It’s a plain brown one, meant for sneaking out of the palace like this.

My twin shuffles his apple from hand to hand for a beat before biting into his. He wears a similar plain shirt, his shoulder-length golden-brown hair tied back from his face. Mine’s too short for that, but I’d mussed it more than usual. We left our circlets in our rooms; we have no use for them tonight.

The kitchens have a path that runs out through the western wall of the palace grounds, so the staff can easily come and go to the markets in the city. Alix and I use the path to bypass the main gates of the palace.

I’m almost positive our father knows about our midnight escapes. If he does, he never mentions them.

The moonlight glints off the Miran River that runs alongside the palace. We cross the bridge into the cobblestoned streets of the market square. During the day, it bustles with people, vendors shouting their wares. At night, the lamps are doused and the courtyard stands empty and quiet. Summer bugs chirp in the dark around us.

A laugh creaks from me. “Do you remember racing our horses through here?” I ask. Alix chuckles around his bite of apple.

“We were idiots,” he says. We walk side by side through the square. I finish my apple and carry the core in one hand, my other hand stuffed into the pocket of my trousers.

“It’s amazing no one chased us out of Highcaster,” I laugh. Alix snorts.

“Can you imagine if Father caught us doing that today?” he asks.

My laughter fills me with warmth. “I think his ambassadors would let Odrend fall to ruin.”

“When are they coming again?”

I think for a moment. “The ambassador from Taja arrives next month, I think. The court has been frantic about it,” I say.

“Think Father will let us out of this one?” Alix asks. He brushes a lock of hair back from his forehead.

I shake my head with a chuckle. “I doubt it,” I say. We will turn twenty around the time the Tajan ambassador arrived. “Future kings, and all.” I wave my hand regally, like Father does when he greets his subjects.

Alix chuckles, but his smile does not reach his eyes. “One future king,” he reminds me. I shrug a little, watching my feet as my boots scuff the cobblestones.

Alix and I shared the same womb, the same home all our lives, the same promise of a life of royalty. But in the three small minutes between our births, Alix and I had been gifted very different futures. As the older twin, the throne will someday be mine. When I married and my wife bore sons, Alix will be pushed further and further from the crown. He likely won’t sit on our father’s throne a day in his life.

My younger twin schools his features into impassiveness when Father mentions my inevitable ascent. But he can’t hide the tightening of his shoulders, the curling of his fingers that make his knuckles turn white. He can’t hide his envy. His rage at being born the second son. Not from me.

I scrub at the back of my neck, feeling my nails leave streaks in my skin. “Who knows, maybe no girls will find me fetching and I’ll have to become a monk,” I say after a beat. Alix laughs, exuberant. We grin at each other, all tension dissipated for now.

“Monks are celibate,” Alix says. “You wouldn’t last a day.” I shrug, my grin widening.

“Well,” I say with a laugh. “I didn’t say I’d be a good monk.”