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Shade doesn’t always look like his father. Not when he’s shifted, with the half-crest and strange textured scales, black though they might be. Not when that particular twinge of fear cuts across his face, that same expression from when Malachite had asked him to vacate the consort quarters lest their secrets be revealed.
And yet he’ll tilt his head one way, or smile, or ask Malachite about tea, and it all comes rushing in, brings back what she cannot quite say. What is written into her scars. Just how much his father’s influence bleeds through.
It’s even worse with Moon.