Page 26 of Henrikk’s Secret

The Copy was sitting at the desk playing with the compass, but he glanced up at Henrikk and sent a self-satisfied thought his way:

Seven inches.

Henrikk felt a surge of triumph. Eight, he silently replied.

The Copy grinned and spread his hands wide. Seven is merely the difference. I’m far larger than you.

“Fuck off,” Henrikk said out loud.

Asher, who had been trying to rationalise the impossibility of having two glorious kings to contend with, looked over at him in confusion. “What?”

“Nothing.” Henrikk dug deep. “I share your frustrations.”

“Then give me answers.”

“Yes,” agreed the Copy. “Give him answers.”

Be silent, Henrikk warned, nails dragging down the doorframe.

Bickering about which one of us is the original is a fruitless exercise, the Copy continued. We were exactly identical in the moment that the dragon completed the duplication. But I do maintain that I am the finer specimen.

Henrikk did not deign to respond. He knew that the Copy was right in at least one respect: They were duplicates. But he had never let the truth get in the way of the history he wanted to write. The widespread burning of books throughout the kingdoms was a testament to the flexibility of facts. Which meant that if he declared that he was the original, then it was so.

Also, by the by, the Copy added, I’m pleased you pictured my name capitalised.

Henrikk promptly made a new rule: he would not pander to the copy’s whims, and he certainly wouldn’t be capitalising its name.

Meanwhile, Asher was levelling him with that steady, penetrating gaze that had yielded plenty of valuable intelligence from their captured enemies over the years. His features were stony as if he had endless patience to continue this interrogation, but the crackling ice in his eyes betrayed him. “Stop playing games and tell me what’s going on.”

He was right. It was time.

Henrikk nodded solemnly. “I would much rather show you.”

He’ll be disappointed, sang the copy. Let’s show him mine instead. All fifteen inches—

Get out.

Frowning, Asher followed his gaze to look at the copy. Henrikk used his moment of distraction to gesture pointedly at the open doorway.

Leave.

The copy answered with an idle, smug smile. With his hands behind his head, he put his feet up on the desk, planting his wet shoes on an open ledger. You go. I’m comfortable here. In my chair, and at MY desk.

He was loathsome. Henrikk wondered what Asher saw in him.

Fuck off. And remove your feet from my ledger. You’re ruining it.

So sorry. The copy was clearly not sorry, because he left his dripping feet on the desk. Meanwhile, the old ink on the ledger had begun to cloud as the pages absorbed the seawater. Although, for the record, it’s my ledger to ruin.

Asher, who had been interrogating them to no avail, ceased his inquisition when he noticed the copy’s wet shoes and clothes. Slowly, the general turned to him—yes, look at ME—and seemed to notice his wet clothes for the first time.

“Why are you both wet?” Asher asked.

“Went for a swim,” the Henrikks answered in unison before exchanging a scowl.

Go away.

Make me.