I am Emilia Davenwood.

I am Emilia Davenwood.

I am Emilia Davenwood.

The little girl held her head up high as she processed down the the length of the Cathedral Royale. Her Royal Highness, Princess Emilia Margaurite Hortensia Davenwood, was finally to be crowned as Her Royal Majesty, Queen Emilia I. It didn't matter that she was scarcely eleven years old, she was the only one left to take the crown. Around them, the Cathedral glimmered in the early morning sun. High arches and vaulted ceilings drew the eye up, up, towards the windows that curved slightly into the ceiling, allowing the light to come streaming in, dancing and playing off the mosaics— proud, and ancient, and awash with gold.

Some artisan, when this cathedral was still bare, had discovered that if the tiny golden tiles were placed at different slight angles, when the light hit it, it would glitter and sparkle and move, as if the greats spirits themselves were in the room. Emilia had never spent much time in the Cathedral Royale. In her mind, it was still her father's, and although she knew that he was dead, she had been hesitant to step foot upon its imposing marble floors.

She allowed her eyes to flit to either side— nobles, clerics, military officers. All had gathered to see the child who would be crowned Queen. All had gathered in hopes of being the first to influence her, to puppet a vulnerable little girl for their own ends. Emilia knew this, all too well, and she knew that escaping it would take all the courage and intelligence and luck that she contained, and then maybe a little bit more.

I am Emilia Davenwood, she whispered to herself. I am the daughter of Queen Aurelia. I am the final heir to the throne of Arrowyl. I will not let them see me cry.

Another step forward, then another, then another. Before she knew it, Emilia was at the grand alter, kneeling to receive the sacrament. A choir, tucked away in a balcony high above them all, burst into song. The ceremonies surrounding a coronation were as ancient as the walls of gold that seemed to hum and move with the rich harmonies of the choir.

She closed her eyes, trying to imagine her father kneeling on these steps. He'd been twenty three— handsome and slender, an athlete, an expert jouster. He had his wife by his side, Queen Heloïse. She'd died years before Emilia's birth— as had the character of the young, lovely, athletic, king. As the face of her father as she'd known him bubbles to the surface of her mind, Emilia's eyes flew open. She couldn't afford to think about that. Not now.

She spoke the ancient words, accepted the crown of gold. Each tradition, old and unbending, was followed to completion. This was what she had been trained for. This was what she had been waiting for.

After what felt like an eternity, the Primogen of the church, who'd conducted the ceremony, turned the girl to face her people as their queen, for the very first time. He took her hand and lifted it high above her head.

"People of Arrowyl!" His voice boomed out over the crowd, "I give to you your sovereign! Her Royal Majesty, Emilia Margaurite Hortensia Davenwood the first, Queen of Arrowyl!"

Cheers erupted through the hallowed halls, although Emilia was unsure as to their sincerity. Her father, towards the end of his reign, had been hated. She was hated. Were they cheers of relief, that finally someone new was on the throne? Or was it simply noise, meant to appease her imagined tyrannical wrath at best, or lull her into a false sense of security, at worst?

There really was no way to tell. But now, the Cathedral had gone quiet, the Primogen was nudging her forward. It was time for her to speak— her first address to her people.

"My subjects— my friends."

A hush fell over the gathered crowd. She could feel their eyes on her, waiting for any show of weakness, desperate to rip her apart.

"Growing up, I was always fond of my studies." She heard a laugh, from somewhere in the crowd. Emilia took a deep breath, and kept going. "Alongside my tutors and esteemed scholars, I devoted myself to the study of philosophy, languages, politics, rhetoric, military strategy, music, literature, art, and most importantly, history. The kings and queens of our past have been my teachers. Their triumphs and failures have been my curriculum, preparing me for the trials to come. What I have learned is what makes a true leader— and the simple fact that Arrowyl has not had one for a long, long time."

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Here, she did pause. Any snickering and doubt had ceased, as the people assembled stared at her in confusion, waiting for her to explain exactly what she meant. And at the back, Emilia noted with a smile, a growing throng of commoners. It was traditional to allow the masses to enter the Cathedral after the new monarch had processed to the front, and to allow them to fill the back of the cathedral, and the ambulatory galleries on either side.

"What I mean to say is that a true monarch must not place themself above their people. A true monarch must take up their place from below— to hold up their country and their people. To sustain them, to fight for them. A true monarch does not eat until their people are fed, they do not sleep until their people are safe in their beds. To rule is to put yourself to one side, and to think only for your people. This is the sort of Queen I mean to be. My happiness, my needs, my safety, mean nothing."

Her voice had climbed in volume. High pitched and flutey, the voice of a child, but it still rang out through the cathedral, lingering in the corners and reverberating against the walls. She smiled, and held her head a little higher.

"I am not just Emilia— I shall never be just Emilia, again. I am Arrowyl, I am you! When you bleed, I am bleeding! When you cry, I am crying! When you starve, I starve with you!" Her voice dropped, suddenly, becoming soft and intense, but still audible to everyone in the space. Instinctively, the crowd leaned in. "And it is only when you prosper that I shall prosper. It is only when you celebrate that I shall celebrate. I see you, I hear you, I know your suffering, and my heart is weeping."

"Suffering," she continued, "is one thing that binds us all together. I know you are angry. I know you are hurting, and crying out for justice— A king like my father lived and died by the strength of his army, the blade of his sword. He used fear and control to keep you subordinate. A queen like I mean to be lived and dies by the love of her people, and by the courage and strength of those guiding her. And so, even with fear and danger and daggers closing in around me, I set my jaw and steel my courage to make you this solemn vow: They will NEVER see me cry! Through Hell or high water, through plague, famine, conspiracy, the threat of war, I will be your stalwart defender!"

Cheers. Cheers from the commoners that now filled half the Cathedral. The nobles, the clerics, were markedly silent. Amongst the esteemed guests in the pews, only the military representatives seemed to show any appreciation for this sentiment. Only those who'd actually fought her father's ceaseless wars cared to see them end.

"Though my body is small and frail," she continued, "though my voice be that of a child, though my knees shake and my breath quickens and catches in my chest, I shall not stand down until justice is done!"

Another cheer, and a surge of movement. The commoners were ready to rush the nobles, to rip their oppressors to shreds. Emilia held up a hand, and was almost surprised that the gesture was enough to make them stop.

"But I must make myself clear. Justice, true justice, is not the same as revenge. Bloodshed alone will never be justice. Justice will be healing the hurt— justice will be repairing your broken roads, building schools for your children, hospitals for your sick, giving food to your hungry. Justice will be bringing your suffering to an end, and earning your trust and your love bit by bit— drop by drop of my blood, sweat, and tears. I know that I am young, but I will stand up and fight! I will fight tooth and nail until I lay ragged and dying to bring you THAT justice."

"And even now, I see the path ahead and know it will not be easy. These words, alone, put me in danger. One by one, the nobles that would control me are coming to the realization that I will not be a puppet queen. I am only queen at all due to a series of tragic and barbaric deaths. And from the moment I was born, I was educated with the singular goal of survival. I was taught to hide and lie and flatter, to keep myself small and complacent, to accommodate and placate and keep my father from looking at me for too long. To keep his suspicions, his paranoia, from lingering upon me. My brothers called me 'Mimi.' Mimi died with them. My tutors, governess, friends, called me 'Emmy.' Emmy the child has died, as well. I give to you, to all of you, my childhood as a tribute, and as a testament of my love and my loyalty to you— my people."

"I beg you all, now, to stand by me. Stand by my side as we march forward. The road ahead will not be easy. Change is always hard won. The tightrope of power is perilous, and we have a long, long way to go. But I do believe we can succeed— we can bring about the dawn of a better day. A kinder, fairer, day. But I cannot do this alone."

The Cathedral settled into absolute silence. Nobody moved, nobody breathed, for just a second. Until the crowd of commoners, and a decent contingency of the military representatives, broke into wild cheers and applause. As she smiled and waved, one question played through the girl's mind, as she contemplated the power struggle that was certain to ensue.

Would it be enough?