Under their joint rule, art and education flourished in Welbournehale. Books became a popular commodity, as both the new King and Queen took special interest in the recently invented printing press. Citizens never worried about invasion from foreign powers, because King Anders placated any potential invaders with bribes of information about their enemies, which he somehow always had on hand. 

(Nobody realized this clever shadow was also a Storyteller. With just one glance into a person’s eyes, he could read their memories from their own point of view, as swift as a blink.) 

Skeptics of Gwynnyth’s marriage learned to embrace their new King. The good Duke Krystofyr, once Gwynnyth’s childhood rival, became especially close friends with Anders. An era of peace and internal growth settled across the kingdom.

However, one anxiety pervaded the air of contentment: the King and Queen had no heir.

It was not for lack of trying. Anders and Gwynnyth quite enjoyed that part. But in fourteen years of passionate marriage, not once had Gwynnyth become pregnant. She blamed herself.

Ever since she was a little girl, she had always been her own harshest critic. If she made even the slightest mistake on one of her inventions or crafts, she’d berate herself relentlessly. To fail at the one task every woman was expected to do—to bear a child—well, to her, that was simply unforgivable.

Anders harbored guilt of his own. After all, he cast no shadow, he bled black bile, and his tears were ink. At times, dark gray patches even appeared on his skin, forcing him to hide for hours until they eventually faded. He had angered the fairy who gave him life, and in return, she had never finished the job to make him a complete man. 

What if Gwynnyth isn’t barren? he asked himself one night. What if I’m the one who brought this childless curse upon us?