Emory doesn't tell anyone, but he is a dud. He was bred and raised for a nobler purpose. He stood to inherit not a gang, some mangy collective of cats, but an empire. He was a general, a prince. He's not from her city, but he visited sometimes, taking a stroll through the poorer district and trying to ignore the stink. Emory was meant to govern with his siblings, to squabble pettily and and run the empire into the ground. But he can't do it. He is eloquence, he is grace, he is cowardice. He runs. He finds her. And the prince wants to leave her, this scarred nameless oddity. He doesn't, but he is not bravery, he is not a dud. He becomes something else.