The morning sun pushes me awake. The day of the banquet arrived, at last. I already hear servants running around, and get up, knowing well I have to undergo multiple rituals before going down. I should talk to Mother about the guests, about the plans, the food, everything is to be in my honor. However, I have no strength to speak to any of them. I’ve been training, fighting for a breath of air, for them - is it not enough?

I feel an ache, somewhere around my ribs. My throat hurts. I must have cried in my sleep. I have the same nightmare, some days it leaves me alone, at times it returns ten times worse. I see West’s bloody face, as he pulls me close and kisses me. I taste the blood on his lips, I swallow it all. It’s bitter, and my throat is swollen seconds later. I crouch and choke on it, trying to get it out of my system, but the poison is already leaking through my organs, over my bones, into the blood vessels. It implodes and I am nothing but meat.

A terrifying experience that old crooks from the covens would see as prophetic. I see it as nothing but my brain punishing me for things that were out of my control. Or were they?

For the first time in weeks, I must have breakfast with family. Auretta reminds me of the tradition. A tradition that makes no sense and needs to be abolished at next light.

Still in my nightgown, covered by a light overcoat with ruffles (the one Mother gave me for my sixteen’s birthday, when I used to love pink and hated anything dark). The long table proposes bacon, an assortment of teas and coffees, hot meals and patisseries. Spica is not yet up, while Mother is already putting a bit of bread in her mouth, her eyes glossy.

I cough, and she doesn’t move. So, I sit and sip my tea in silence. Father joins us soon after I’ve finished my first cup. His eyebrows go up, but he stays silent. I could cut the tension with a conjured knife, if I so wished.

“Ready?” Mother asks me, as if she cared. I shrug.

“Nothing to be ready about. I don’t have to make a speech.”

“I’m not talking about the speech. Are you ready to face the people again? After your… fiasco last time?”

I cough, badly swallowing a piece of bacon.

“But of course, I still stand by what I said.” I smile, my eyes closing in utter gleam. I continue devouring the breakfast, prepping the body for a hard day.

My parents stay silent. They do not exchange looks; they do not talk. I feel like an outsider yet again, and this time, my patience runs low.

“Are you done?”

“Whatever do you mean, Norella?” Mother asks, putting a spoon of oatmeal back to the bowl.

“You act as if I wasn’t here. Nobody asked me about how my training is going, about the things I’ve learned, or how I’ve been doing these days? You do understand I am still grieving the loss of a very important person in my life.”

Father’s lips become a thin line. Mother lowers her head and stares at the food. There is no meaning in this. I clap my hands together and get up. “As you were.” I mockingly say and turn to the door.

“I told you, Norella, you made a terrible mistake. You are no longer trustworthy, and I do not have any desire to ask how your little person is feeling these days.” I finally hear this disgusted, powerful voice.

The old witch’s reading comes to mind. The Emperor, the father and authority figure, sits right here, watching me like a predator. I wonder who Mother is. Not Empress, surely. There is nothing motherly or fertile about her. She is dead as a birch’s branch in Yule. And she certainly does not call nature to me. So, who am I? Am I The Fool, and is this my journey? Or was I always The Devil? Was I always playful, materialistic, and addicted to the love I received from West and Kaira?

Kaira…

Kaira.

Kaira.

I shake my head and ignore Father’s words. There is no meaning, in any of this circus; we are all doomed, regardless of our family inner spites. I can only hope Demus hasn’t called in the green flag to attack. As the sun goes up and the halls of my home glow with warmth, I can only pray nothing happens tonight.

Deep inside I know something will. There has been silence for way too long.

Three maids come knocking at my door, bringing the dress I’ve designed, and numerous accessories. It’s a huge chest, filled to the brim with riches. I gleam at the sight, ready to try it all on. Some things still can bring ephemeral joy even when one’s heart has not healed.

The dress the girls show is huge. Many layers of satin, silk, and jacquard. I’ve rarely ever worn gloves, but it feels fitting to begin now. I want to feel covered. They’re snow white, like the base color of the dress. I wince at the sight corset that will make me lose my breath after one step - but there’s nothing I can do now; It was my initial idea to look as breathtaking. Such is the burden of beauty. The heels will make my legs thinner, me higher, elevated as a future queen should be. I notice some details were added – as my drawing skills didn’t allow me to bring everything I had painted in my mind. For a second I feel a tang of self-consciousness. I thought it would be perfect just the way I painted it, but looking at this… Yes, magic could never replace the hard work of the seamstresses.

Sketched drawings of my hairstyles are presented. First, a laid-back style, my hair would be curled and let free, except for multiple bobby pins with pearls, adorning the scalp. It would bring out my innocent femininity and remind the subjects of my youth. The second one, is an intricate work of art. Most of my black hair would be gathered around the center of the back of my head, held by a huge flower comb, letting a part of hair down into a braid coming down to my spine. And the last one, an upward style, with most of my hair on top, held by bobby pins underneath and multiple braids, encirling my skull.

I sit on the stool, deciding on the style, caressing the paper, imagining myself in them. One of the maids attempts to suggest one, but another hits her across the arm, shushing. It is my choice, and mine alone. This banquet is bigger than my birthday celebrations, bigger than the queen’s marriage anniversary. It is a symbol for other kingdoms that a woman heir can and will wear the crown, proud and feminine, strong and resilient. That queen was taught discipline and history, potions and herbs, the magic of stars and beyond. That queen danced and played the piano and the flute. That queen was bred for this role. She worked tirelessly for the day the crown would be put on her head.

I smile into the mirror. I’ve suffered long enough for this moment. After tonight, I will have the power I need to stop the corruption, to stop the secrets and the lies. I will avenge my love, and will help those in need. Because that is what a great queen shall do. Because this is who I was born to be.

I pick the hairstyle and get up to try on the dress. Incredible fabric, such delicate hands worked on it. I smell it, and it smells like spring. Freshly cut grass, honey cakes and mint. Auretta glides her hands on the hem, feeling it. I smile at her, giddy. She does the same. We share a look of understanding, and I my heart skips a beat. I’ve survived up until this point.

Auretta’s mahogany hair shines under the sunlight as she helps me into a temporary outfit, before the ball starts. It’s a simple tunic and knee length skirt. Boots are the finishing touch. I feel very comfortable in this and thank her. I think it’s the first time I truly thanked a servant. She looks over me, her lips a thin line. She wants to say something, but decides against it. She’s about to leave when I call out to her.

“What do you think will happen at the banquet?”

She turns around, hesitating. “The King said it will be grandiose and put the rightful ruler in the spotlight. Or at least that’s what the other servants heard.”

I nod. All according to plan, then.

“Thank you, you can go,” But she doesn’t move and approaches me. Her cold fingers interlace with mine.

“You should be careful tonight. Many people will be there, and we don’t have enough guards if…”

“If the revolution attacks, right?” I finish her sentence with dread in my voice. She nods.

“Auretta,” She looks at me. “If anything happens, you should run. Don’t come looking for me, or for any of us. Grab nothing and leave the palace. Only the spirits know how this will turn out. It might be bloody.”

“How do you know? Maybe the King is right in doing nothing, maybe it’s all just coincidence and accident. And your Sir Demus has killed the spy!” She sounds so innocent when she speaks like this. I know she thinks the contrary, so why does she have to play pretend? For my safety? Becasue it is her orders? Who is to trust here, if not her?

“Not West’s death. That was murder. And the murderer still roams free.”

Her gaze falls and her mouth closes. I feel bad for her. Is she happy here? Is she happy working for us? Or is she tempted to join the traitors? Have I not been enough for her? Have I not been gracious and a little stupid? Have I not been the perfect princess?

“Could it be one person and not an organization?” Her question reeks of hope, and for an instant, I wish it were true. I lower my gaze and let go of her hands. I miss the cold touch of her fingers instantly. I want to hold hands more often. It’s a warmth I forgot existed in this world.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m just seeing things.”

That ends our conversation and she leaves, without turning back. Her shoulders are slouched as she closes the door. I sit on the bed and touch the silky covers. They tempt me to go back to bed and disappear underneath for hours. Somehow, I manage to stand up and get out to breathe fresh air.

Samhain is upon us. I can hear it in the birds' songs, sense it in the dying trees. The fire has not destroyed everything, but I can still feel its heat around me, contradicting the cold breeze. I walk around the castle, yellow leaves crunching under my feet. Soon we’ll know if it was the revolution or not. Very soon they’ll show up again and try to take the castle from us. I’m scared, but I have a ray of hope that, when they show up armed to the teeth, hungry for blood, our knights and guards will be able to protect us. And I will be there. If everyone is disarmed and bloody, if every knight and guard lose their fight, I will stand, crying and terrorized, but I will never run. That I know.

I’m taken aback when I notice several knights talk by the main gate, surrounded by oak trees. If anything were to happen to the oaks… I’ll miss them most. They are big trees, older than Father, maybe older than the Seagrave’s entire genealogy. Their roots run deep into the earth. They take the water deep underneath us, granting us air. They suffer each year too, with every new spring, insects eat the fresh lime-colored leaves. It’s a sad thing to see when everything in the palace should be perfect. Perfectly shaped, perfectly beautiful, in ways that Nature never is.

The knights look distressed, pacing around, talking in low voices. I quietly approach them, avoiding the gravel.

I’m close enough to hear.

“-safeguards were put up, it’ll be fine, Christian.” I know that name. He is one of the most experienced knights we have. He won a good number of tournaments, made our family name proud in foreign countries. He was in Celeste, Mother’s home country, when it all fell, too. He was still an apprentice, accompanying the other knights. When the castle was taken over and the royal family killed, he fled, and it’s rumored he was the one to save Mother from the fire. She demanded political refuge in Malachite and that’s how she met Father, recently crowned, and new to the title.

“The King’s orders were scarce, we don’t have enough information about the traitors.” Christian’s raspy voice pierces through me, as if I was standing in front of him. He’s unnerved and jumpy. Something’s clearly wrong.

“The revolutionaries won’t dare attack the castle directly. Their small attacks were spies’ doing. We can stop a mob from entering, and the magicians are sworn to help put up a barrier, if anything were to happen. Which won’t.” The other knight says, poised and calm. His reassurance is calming, and yet…

“I believe the princess, spies are still among us, and they’re doing a damn good job. We can’t let the King host the banquet.” Christian’s tone is harsh. I see the other guards take a step back.

“Are you mad? If the king wants, the king does. It’s our job to protect them if anything happens.”

Christian nods and turns around, walking straight to me. I gasp and search for a hiding place. But these trees are slim and even if I’m quite thin, I don’t weigh twenty kilos and don’t have the physique of a child.

“Your Highness?” He is surprised. I bow my head and he does the same.

“Sir Christian.. About the banquet,” he stops in his tracks and turns around. “You think it’s a bad idea?”

“Something is bothering you?” I shrug.

“The revolution breathing down my neck.” Even though he’s wearing a helmet, I can see his eyes darken. “You?”

“You’re safe here. I’ll make sure no one is harmed, not the guests, nor your family.”

Somehow, I believe him.

“The king is a fool. But this banquet is important to me, for the future of Malachite. ” I’m not supposed to say that the king is bad at his job, but I’m brave enough to hope Christian will understand. “And thank you for believing me.”

“You are certainly not alone, Your Highness. Some call us paranoid. I call it being careful and reading between the lines.”

I know. I nod.

He bows and leaves to the barracks.

Who will save us once the fire comes? Who will be on our side and who will betray? I know too many people here, they’re all nice and respected. Would they do this to my family and me? Demus was sent here for one reason - to destroy us from within; but he doesn’t know us, he hasn’t worked for us out of loyalty. He is blinded by hatred I do not know the source of.

Tomorrow I’ll get to the bottom of it all - and then, I’ll buy myself time. I’ll smile and hold parties, I’ll meet the ministers and call for their support. If I fail, it’s all lost. The castle, the riches, the network - it will all burn under the hate of the group I have yet to see in person. There are moments I want to think they do not exist because I don’t see them - but West’s empty room and absence of his chill and black hair is more than enough to keep me grounded.

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***

It’s time to dress up for the banquet. I took a long bath, washing myself clean, so I smelled of nothing but licorice and violet. Auretta came in to help me put the dress on. It was hell. So many layers, so many strings and laces. She was kind enough to keep my ribcage in one piece. The corset could go farther, but was it really worth it?

My outfit was nearly finished. The final touch were golden flowers planted in my hair, styled into the braid, falling down my spine, a flower comb decorating the back of my head. She put a navy blue cloak around my shoulder, clipping it in place with a gemstone. I felt something stir inside of me, and when I looked up, she smiled.

“What is that?” I touch the gem. It’s purple, but inside I notice a bright yellow. Auretta gently slaps my hands away.

“Something to protect you, if anything goes wrong.”

“It seems the whole palace is afraid of the banquet, except for the king,” I huff in disbelief.

“We servants hear things. Knights have been restless, and the guards too. They’re hearing things from other cities. Capital is fine, only noblemen can afford living here. But elsewhere… buildings are burning apparently and people are scared.”

I gasp. “And when people are scared, Your Highness…” she takes a pause and looks outside. “They do terrible things,”

“Thank you for the gift. Did you get it at the store you mentioned? The old witch’s?”

“I won’t tell you how I got it. It might get me fired.” she smiles and takes her leave, grabbing some of my dirty clothes with her.

“This girl grew to be completely crazy,” I laugh and sigh.

My minds takes me to the words Father told me. That I was no longer trustworthy, that i made a terrible mistake. Were the buildings burning because of my speech? Because I called for aid adn support from the nobles? Or was it Father’s pride that makes him talk to me as if I weren’t the mirror image of him young?

At least, I still know how to laugh.

***

When I hear bells ring under me, I know I’ll probably cry in my sleep if anything terrific happens tonight. The adrenaline of upcoming danger keeps me on my toes - but once the danger passes, what will I see? Will it be gruesome images of splattering blood and its heat on my hands, on my arms, on my face, or will it be an awarding applause of the crowd, welcoming me to a new title, new responsibilities and a whole new stage of life of a princess?

Step by step, I descend the stairs. Sir Demus is waiting downstairs, beside all the other knights, who are invited to the celebration, by tradition I am thankful Father upheld this time.

I sigh and the doors open, letting me in the intricate long room, the one where empty malachite thrones are. The walls are warm stone, with hanging paintings of old monarchs. I trace their frames as I walk. I take in the beauty of my home, while servants bring the plates, glasses and utensils. I mumble a silent prayer to the spirits to help me save this. It may be selfish of me to think of my home in times like these, but I was born here. I can’t save the country and lose this in the process. I want this palace intact once the revolution strikes. If it strikes.

The second bell rings, and people are invited in. The guards take their positions at the entrance, at the corners and the windows of the reception room. The ball room is so grand. It’s a perfect showcase of power and title, the best of the realm.

The evening is to be divided in several arcs. First, reception and greetings, followed by small talk and drinks with assortiments of canapes. Thirdly, the dancing and the moment the king gives his speech and places a temporary crown, in my case, a tiara, on the heir’s head. Finally, a long feast that can last up until next morning, with entrees, main courses, even more drinks and desserts.

I can already see beautiful evening gowns ladies are wearing, their lace and velvet hems splattered on the marble floor. The columns holding the ceiling are snow white, rigorously cleaned beforehand by our hardworking servants. I forgot to thank them for the job. I never did before. Now guilt takes over for a moment, as if I think of their aching muscles, dusting the halls and rooms. I remind myself they’re generously paid for their work, and guilt settles in a corner of my mind, undisturbed.

The male guests bow and women curtsy, proceeding inside the ballroom room. I feel regal, more than usual. My clothes are an intricate work of many seamstresses. I like the power clothing holds, just like I liked to change shoes every other week. I used to go to the city often, buying anything that caught my eye - for the pleasure of it. I know not many can afford such a lush lifestyle, but it doesn’t stop me from wanting more. Then I remember West’s face, when he saw me trying on that summer dress all those years ago. He looked so ethereal.

Father stands in the ballroom, which was built beside the throne room. For such events, the throne and ball rooms are joined, the doors taken off the hinges. They were separated years ago, way before Father took the title of king. My ancestors thought the throne room was for family, to assess our power, to have meals, maybe invite some close friends. The ballroom was for grand events, like this one. Not all stayed the same. We had no friends to invite for dinner, no family meetings, no assessing our power over Malachite. It was just dinners with Father and Rigel laughing at their inner jokes, Mother coddling Spica, and there was me, their eldest daughter, quiet, naive and lonely.

I enter the gallery of tall mirrors, murals and curtains. Windows are left open for the warmth of everyone’s bodies.

“Daughter,” he speaks loudly. “Come join us.”

I give Demus a sign to keep his post, and approach my family.

Father is wearing a large coat around his shoulders with natural fur, hiding a dress shirt and tunic underneath. His pants are of simple cotton, but adorned with jewels even I found rare. Mother, the queen consort, beholds the title rightfully, with her slim gown, less layers, but more jewelry; a huge emerald necklace around her long neck and bracelets that weigh more than they appear to. Her skin shines under the natural light of chandeliers and candles all around us. Rigel mimics Father’s outfit, a much simpler version, though. Spica wears a cute bubbly dress that doesn’t help her round face. She seems so young in this attire and I wonder if it was a choice on Mother’s part. Are there any potential suitors who wished to ask for her hand prematurely? Will they be disgusted by the childlike aspect of hers, or will they love it even more? Mother seems to think dressing Spica in childlike clothes (fit for a twelve year old, in any case) would scare off the vultures. She dressed me the same way, but I never questioned it. Marriage was ever the taboo subject. Nobody talked about it, not even for me, the eldest. I considered it a sign of good faith, that I was indeed, on the road to wear the crown, undisturbed by suitors.

As I stand beside them, and smile to the gathering crowd, I start to wonder why I've never been proposed to. Arranged marriages between countries have been common for centuries. Even before the First Yule, before humanity received the gift of magic, before the Fae entered war with us. So, a question arose, why not me? I look at Mother, searching for the answer to the question I would never ask. Childhood and youth was spent studying. No free time, no time for official meetings and dates. I was so deep in the books and spending money that I rarely saw anything other than my own nose.

Was West and I’s relationship so disgusting that Mother’s traumatized lips could never speak of marriage? My body is sullied they stated.

People finished pouring in. The ballroom is now full of all kind of guests, this time, not only nobles, but wealthy bourgeoisie. The cold evening air enters the hall. I glance at the setting sun, the beautiful spectrum of autumn colors painting the skies.

I feel Spica’s big and brown eyes on me. She raises her eyebrows and peeks to the left corner of the ballroom. I slowly turn around to see Demus standing there, his gloved hand on the sword. He watches us, never breaking eye contact. My face flushes as I turn around.

“Your new pet?” She asks, twirling her blond curly hair. I scoff.

“Exactly.” Ignoring her, I send one of my brightest smiles to the guests. They come to congratulate me, bowing to us all. I lower my head every time.

Blush creeps up to my cheeks, as I greet everyone by name. I have their names and titles memorized, and rarely, Mother whispers them into my ear. I thank her and go on. The king stands beside me, letting me be the center for now.

I slowly turn my head to my left, to check if Demus is still there. The fake knight hasn’t moved an inch. His face is cold. There is no emotion, maybe a slight annoyance.

“Welcome. Please, the drinks and foods are at your disposition. Let the festivities begin.” The king speaks and people start to disperse, some go to the throne room, some move to the corners, where slim tables were placed, holding finger foods.

“Go now,” Mother pushes me towards the crowd.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” I dismiss her touch quickly. Each step I take, people move out of their way, bowing, hand on chest. My steps are graceful and slow, as I was taught. I wonder if I’ll see Dayne again.

If by magic, I see him. He stands far away, but he always saw me. I have no choice but to cowardly flee. Confrontation is not my forte, I never know what to say. What can I tell him? That his words reminded me of a moment I so wish to erase? That his actions could be considered treason?

Spirits preserve me, I don’t need another problem now. So, I quickly turn around and search for Demus. I start to panic, as he is nowhere to be seen. I feel Dayne coming closer and turn around, feeling the eyes glued to me. I bump into something hard, that clanks upon impact and look up.

The spy is right here, his hands on my exposed shoulders, holding me tight. Only now I notice the cloak he’s wearing, swirling behind him. I try to move away, but his grip is strong.

“Running from somebody again, Your Highness?”

“Let go of me, please.” I master, looking back and seeing Dayne closer than ever. “Actually, don’t. Keep holding me.”

He huffs and stares the noble from Star Waters down. Instinctively, I hold onto him. My chest touches his breastplate and I can feel the coolness of metal against my exposed cleavage. My breath hitches and I don’t dare to look behind. It’s too noisy for me to hear whether Dayne left or not.

Demus’s thumb finds my chin and lifts it. “Anything else?” He sounds completely unfazed by the situation. I pull out of his grip, and shake my head.

“No, no, that will be all, Sir Demus,” I mutter, placing my hands on my forehead, careful not to smudge my make-up. The maids spent hours putting on the liners and eye shadows, designing my face to look as dignified as humanly possible.

“Shall I return to my post?”

I look at him confused. “You are not working tonight, the knights are guests, too.”

He shares my confusion. “Oh? I haven’t been notified.”

This alone cost him his cover, but I already knew he was an impostor. Now, I’ve been proved right twice.

“You are new, that is my fault, I apologize.” I say without any note of mockery. With that, his face changes from neutral to curiosity and slight shock.

“I-ah, thank you.” He says, nodding and bows. It’s quick, and in a second, he is gone. He goes to the throne room through the arches, where doors used to be, and disappears in the crowd. I shouldn’t have let him go. But he would learn that at some point no knights work tonight - and he would know I am up to something. Or he would just think I am a sadistic employer. Which is exactly why he must hate me, even though I am not.

After half an hour of talking to people addressing me, shaking men’s hands, bowing slightly to the women guests, my feet grow tired. I persevere, walking around, accepting the congratulations from every side. It’s gratifying to know they care. Our people. My… People.

From the corner of my eye I always check if Demus is in the perimeter. I find him talking to fellow knights, laughing. Yes, continue playing your role and I will play mine - up until there is no choice but to pick a side. There is a naive, childish hope that after spending so long at the palace he would have learned to love us. Would learn to understand us and why some things are this way. It is easy for me to say, as I have no clue what is going on in the kingdom. Poverty? Assault? Arson? What other crimes have Father hidden from me?

Sir Christian isn’t here. He must be stationed outside, checking the walls. The small orchestra starts playing and people gather to dance. It’s tradition, to first have a drink, then dance, and then Father would announce his chosen one; a formality, I keep telling myself.

Music turns lively and pairs slide to the center of the ballroom. I watch them from a corner, sipping my apple juice, disguised as sugary white wine. I am not drinking tonight.

“Your Highness, a dance?” A middle aged man comes to me and stretches out his hand. I have nothing else to do, anyways, Demus is still having fun with his fake-colleagues and I accept the invitation.

The man keeps a polite distance between our bodies as we dance. I keep my face neutral, sometimes letting a tiny smile paint my burgundy lips. We swirl and clap our hands to the rhythm.

I smile widely, bowing slightly, catching my breath. This is one of the liveliest dances I’ve ever had, and the partner was polite too. I look at the ceiling and exhale. I feel a little hot. Thankfully the windows are open.

“Another dance, Your Highness?”

I am ready to say no, but as I turn I come face to face with Demus. His cloak is disregarded, and the silver armplates are gone. His hair is wilder than the usual style. Only in such a warm room, beneath the suffocating number of diverse people, I realize how beautiful he is. He stretches his hand, inviting me in. Another loud melody starts, trumpets and strings, and I cannot deny I want to dance again.

The moment I accept his hand, he pulls me in closer, and we’re in the center again. He swirls me, and I turn around and round, until I stop, breathless already. I keep my balance, even in heels and move towards him. I keep my face neutral, as I should, but his moves are quick, he moves in perfect harmony with the music. Even I, after years of lessons, cannot do that. I could never truly let go. I fall behind the rhythm, but he pulls me to him. Our hands are in the air, as they clap, and we turn around, jumping. I don’t see neighboring pairs, I move without a single care. I must have pushed someone at least once already, and it brings a smile to my face. I’m lost in the music and the noise of clapping hands. Our heels tap against the marble floor, as we whirl.

I am pushed to his chest, it heaves, and I feel his breathing on my forehead. I feel no fear at this moment. His hand finds my waist and I let him lead me further. The tempo rises and we find ourselves failing some of the steps. We laugh breathlessly, in unison. His teeth are straight and white, and his smile bewitches me.

I lose count of my swirls, as we are pushed against each other, my head at his clavicle, breathing in the honey scent. For one dance, I let myself forget everything. I let myself believe everything wrong that happened was but a nightmare. I let myself smile widely, accepting the future awaits just around the corner.

The tension and the heat in the room rise, and people laugh louder, moving hectically, as if it was their last dance. He puts his hand into my hair, his grip steady as we dance. The music starts to fade, the musicians let out the last notes and we pull away.

At first, we look at each other, smiles vanishing. His eyes return to his emotionless eerie green and my face rests to its natural tired look. We catch our breaths, not breaking eye contact. His eyes narrow for a second.

“I should go,” I blurt out and turn around, nearly running to the throne room. I pass by people congratulating me, but I ignore them this time. I can barely breathe, even though my body feels fine. I am sweating, and the corset hurts my stomach. I grab at it and try to move it forward, letting some of air come underneath. It saves me from a small loss of consciousness moment at the party.

The rest of the dances I stand by Mother. Father talks to ministers at a corner, by one of the tables in the throne room while people have fun at the ballroom. Spica and Rigel are both gone, maybe eating canapes, maybe drinking - even if they’re not allowed to - or maybe they escaped the festivities and are outside, playing hide and seek or something.

Mother doesn’t talk. She watches. Sometimes I can see a grin or a lip turned downward, at the outfits tonight. Spica hates when she does this. Commenting on people’s choice of cloth. I used to be intrigued by the subject, but more time passed, more books I had to read, and more spells I had to learn, I completely let go of fashion.

There is no sign of disturbance. The guards are unmoving, at the ready. The knights, happy and drunk, are still strong enough to fight their battles.

Father walks up to the dais. He faces the crowd and claps his hands - a movement I learnt to mimic.

“Dear guests. Tonight is a very special evening, as you well know. I will be announcing and promising the crown to my child, who will later take the role of ruler of Malachite.”

I hold my breath and Mother takes my hand, squeezing it. Her palms are sweating, even if she didn’t dance.

A roar of applause and I blush at the attention. I am never going to get used to it. I smile at Mother, her features mirroring mine. She is older, but nothing but her body shows it. Her skin is clear and barely wrinkled. The voluptuous dress envelops her, a golden tiara on top of her head shines with thousand colors. I bite my lip in anticipation. My heart beats fast.

“Let us begin!” His voice is more joyous than the past few days. I stopped counting the days since West’s death, so I lost count of it all, too. Training meddled with my brain, and now I feel like every bad incident blended together. I was afraid but I am not anymore. “Recent events inside the castle have made me think. Have made us think,” he brings his wife closer, who lets go of my hand.

“Falkë believes this is the right thing to do, and so do I.”

Spica joins us at the dais, standing on Father’s right, right beside my brother who appeared out of nowhere. I stand on the very left, a small distance between me and my family.

I clasp my hands together. I lift my chin and am ready to walk towards the center of the dais, when Father speaks, “The crown shall go to Rigel, my middle child, my only male heir!”