Chioni was up at dawn. Her boots clacked against the tile as she marched down the Portrait Hall, the longest corridor in the palace. Along the walls were lined enormous paintings, depicting past holders of the Service Stone. Most of them monarchs — her ancestors, each with a varying shade of the same blue stare. The portraits stopped abruptly at a certain point, leaving blank space for future heirs of the stone.

  Transitioning between portrait and empty wall was an unfilled frame — her frame, there already, a placeholder for her eventual image. The walls were polished enough that she could see her reflection inside that frame — so small, compared to the vast size of the space inside. Seven months ago, she’d stood before that frame, struggling to comprehend the reality of it all. She’d stood there for hours.

  The first night after the Choosing, she’d paced the length of the hall over and over again, until her calloused feet blistered. Silently seething with the decisions, mentally cursing the world for deciding to torture her more.

  Of all the people who could have been chosen, it had to be those three. She felt as though she were being tested and laughed at as she failed. Pnevma, the infuriating, smug little thing . . . Evgenis, one of the noble heirs, bound to see every one of her mistakes unless she kept him busy, and Dilitirio . . .

  ‘Why’ was a question she’d asked far too many times in the past year, and those questions had tumbled through her mind, pulling her back and forth in the dark.

  Such as the question she was not supposed to ask: why was the Service Stone lethal to its own holders? She knew why. The same reason it could be given to anyone dutiful. The Service Stone didn’t care about a person’s soul, their interests, or their beliefs — only their loyalty. Only their loyalty to the kingdom.

  And if that loyalty wavered . . .

  The other three holders were safe now, secure in their power.

  And she had her head on the block, praying the blade wouldn’t come down.

  No. It wouldn’t. She was loyal. She was dedicated. She was grateful.

  She’d stopped, dead in her tracks, as she reached Queen Dynami’s portrait. The late queen.

  All her life, Chioni had believed her to be invincible. Immortal.

  Up until the day she’d watched her die.

  Windows loomed on the opposite wall. The curtains were down, but the light leaking through had lit a strip of the late queen’s face, compounding the eerie, lethal nature of her painted stare.

  The late queen could no longer rule, but for whatever reason, Chioni felt like she lingered. Like her spirit remained in this world, hovering just behind her heir, tracking her every movement. Hearing her every thought. Sensing her every complaint. Knowing her every move.

  That threat was just as tangible as that of the stone fixed to her wrist — one step out of place, and one of the two would strike her dead.

  “I — I will not complain,” she’d said, straightening. “I understand what choice has been made. I know that the Founders know what is best for the kingdom. I honor their decisions.”

  Queen Dynami’s portrait had not offered a response.

  “Do not heed my . . . confusion,” she’d continued. She’d considered relaying her theories – that Aconite had planted a curse, that something was messing with her head – but looking at that blue stare, she’d known. Queen Dynami would not appreciate excuses.

  Instead, she’d gone down on one knee and sworn again the promise she’d made to the dead queen. “The kingdom will not fall because of me.” Hand over her heart, the Service Stone glittering on her wrist. “I will serve the crown with everything I have.”

  She had no place other than that frame in this hall of her ancestors. She would earn her portrait. She would paint her own image into the frame provided for her, and she would make a masterpiece out of the refuse she’d been given.

  She would protect the kingdom, no matter the cost.

  Now, she paused briefly again before Queen Dynami’s portrait, then hurried onward, the queen’s blue gaze burning into her back. She squared her shoulders.

  She’d wasted a good portion of the night rifling through Aconite’s files, then trying to find where Dilitirio’s paperwork had been stored and coming up squat. The answers were being compiled and reformatted somewhere, but she would’ve preferred the original set. The chances of it helping her were slim – Dilitirio didn’t seem the type to file anything in an orderly fashion – but the chance was there, and it was the best thing she had short of going directly to Dilitirio and attempting conversation.

  She’d fallen asleep in her study and woken up a mere ten minutes ago, barely in time to make it across the palace to her meeting. It was Sunday; the day of rest. But a queen could never rest. It didn’t matter what day it was — Sunday, Arday, Wayday, Earday, Firday, Laday, or Soday — she’d always have meetings to attend, not to mention the ever-mounting piles of paperwork she’d been ignoring since spring.

  And now that the new holders had been chosen – finally, finally – she would need to begin organizing a training program. She couldn’t afford further delay. She needed them in action as soon as possible.

  That, of course, was under the assumption that they’d listen and fulfill their duties. It had been nine days since they’d gotten their stones, and a certain someone wasn’t attending her lessons.

  She had also appeared to have refused rooming with the other holders — she had given a couple servants quite a scare when they had gone in to clean a supposedly empty room and found it an absolute mess. Chioni kept writing her notices, and letters, telling her to do her work, for Statheros’ sake – at the same time, carefully keeping her distance, and avoiding actually seeing her. Unfortunately, she doubted a single word had reached Dilitirio’s pea-sized brain.

  How did you reason with someone like that? Someone who had zero concern for the wellbeing of their countrymen, who blatantly ignored all calls to duty? And how could Chioni reason with someone who’d cursed her in such a way that she couldn’t stop thinking of her stupid smug smirk and the perpetual laughter in her voice, honey and silk —

  She’d deal with Dilitirio later. Somehow. What she needed to do now was focus. Her advisor had stopped her last night after dinner to inform her of a meeting in the Peaceful Policy Proposal Room in the morning. She needed to be present, and she needed to be presentable.

  She was calm. She was collected. She was not still thinking about Dilitirio’s idiotic face. Or the way her violet eyes gleamed like she knew some kind of secret, something Chioni didn’t know about herself. She did not want to talk to Dilitirio ever again, and she did not need to know whatever that secret was.

  She tried to fill her thoughts with history. Or — easier yet, astronomy. Constellations. The moons. Tsu would be in its first quarter today, even though she wouldn’t have time to see it. Eru in its last. Insa and Tor would both be dark shadows in the sky.

  The six moons travelled on severely elliptical orbits around the planet Theia, which meant each was a different size and brightness at different points in time. The lengths of their cycles were different, too; Eru travelled the fastest, completing a cycle every sixteen days, while Qua took an entire a hundred and fifteen to complete a cycle. Insa’s route came to a time of twenty-six days; Tor’s, fifty-two; Dise, fifty-eight; and Tsu, seventy-six.

  The Theian calendar was based on Insa’s cycle; fourteen months with twenty-six days each, except for Empyrea, the first month, which had twenty-seven days. The fourteen months: Empyrea, Ouranos, Loch, Terra, Conflagra, Malady, Ego, Nova, Welkin, Aegaeon, Gaia, Hestia, Asclepius, and Afflatus. She’d been drilled on so many historic events; that was all she could think of, when hearing the name of any month. The dates and times of this battle, or this decree . . . All the great feats of the monarchs of the past.

  Yes. Focus on that. Tesseran history. The frame she had to live up to. The throne she had to fill.

  Service, service, service.

  She stopped in front of the door to the Peaceful Policy Proposal Room, and grappled with the handle absentmindedly, still reciting dates and names and figures in her head.

  Her mistake.

  The door snapped off its metal hinges, leaving her holding a thick, heavy wooden door in front of her, while several eyes turned to stare at her from within.

  Her eyes landed on Gois Eligro — another discussion about the Magic Ban, then. Voices would clamber over each other defending the late queen’s decisions while Eligro, head of the magic department, would sit back and watch calmly. He’d sip his tea until the end of the meeting, when he’d stand up and reiterate what they all knew: that nothing could be done about it, either way, since a decree given by a holder of the Service Stone could only be reversed by another adult holding the Service Stone, and they would all have to wait until Chioni turned eighteen. Then, the few critics of the ban would either begin grumbling in dissatisfaction or joke that she should just hurry up and do it already, and she’d try not to break the table while thinking: At least you’re looking forward to that. Surely, that’s what’s important here.

  Now Eligro leaned forward. “Princess Chioni Epsilon,” he said. “Please, join us. No need to bring the door.”

  Laughter.

  Her neck burned. She glanced up at the broken hinges, wondering if she could force them to work again, but they had been snapped completely. She pressed her mouth tight together and finally said, “It seems you have this meeting under control, Lord Eligro. Please, begin without me.” She jammed the door back in place and didn’t wait for a response.

  Five minutes later, she found herself in the orchards, hand pressed against the trunk of a tree. Fresh air — she needed that, something clean to breathe, something cold. She crouched down, her back pressed against the rough bark, and dug her nails into her biceps, trying to force away the knot in her chest through physical pain. It worked too well, leaving tiny crescent shaped cuts in her skin.

  Service was supposed to give her strength. Strength to continue serving.

  Instead, it only left cracks in the floor and slices in her skin.

  She pressed her head into her arms and shut her eyes. She needed to control this. She needed to. It had been months — Dilitirio had the stone for a few days, and she was already using Freedom’s powers on a whim.

  She was supposed to be Statheros’ heir. She had his blood — more than that, she had the queen’s blood. How could she have none of her precision? Power? Authority? She needed to fill her role — she needed to rule a kingdom. And yet, not even the other holders — the ones who were supposed to be her allies — could spare her some respect.

  “You are only fifteen. With all due respect, your highness, you have neither the experience nor the wisdom to rule our fine country. You can barely attend your meetings in a punctual manner. What makes you think you are capable enough to produce the kingdom’s next defenders?”

  Her advisor’s words.

  It might be a bit easier if the stones had chosen worthwhile candidates, she thought, gritting her teeth. People who understood the importance of their responsibilities. People who cared about the kingdom.

  He never said it, but she could see the statement in his eyes. She’d seen it in the queen’s contemptuous gaze — a look she’d memorized six years ago.

  You can always be replaced.

  She had two roles. Queen Dynami’s heir as the future queen, and the holder of the Service Stone.

  Even Statheros’ blood could only protect her to an extent. It had prevailed through rulers for decades, but, still, the way her advisors talked . . . She had to be perfect. Incompetence would be removed, royal blood or not.

  If she couldn’t control the stone . . . if she couldn’t control the holders . . .

  Then she had nothing. She would be nothing; they would — they would have her stripped of her title, disgraced and sent away, banished, executed — executed? They wouldn’t need to bother. The stone on her wrist would kill her itself, in a heartbeat. It would vaporize her; leaving not even a body to wrap. She could be here, then gone, in a single second.

  How could it be, that descended from all of history’s greatest monarchs, was she; someone who couldn’t even wield the power that was hers by birthright? How could she be so weak?

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  “You are not enough. You need our help, princess. I would suggest you tread lightly.”

  Resentment burned inside of her throat. She knew they meant well; they cared, just as she did, for the goals of the kingdom. They worked to preserve the legacy the queen had left behind.

  “You are not enough.”

  I am.

  “You can always be replaced.”

  I won’t.

  She would do whatever it took. She could deal with the meetings her advisors sprung on her with gritted teeth, adhere to their insanely cramped schedules, and by Statheros’ Crown, she would master the Service Stone. Whatever it took. She’d wash it with her own blood, if necessary.

  And the other holders — she would make them listen to her. Persuasion, force, trickery — whatever it took.

  “. . . Chioni?”

  She flinched.

  Evgenis stood quietly next to the tree, gazing down on her with his sad brown eyes, worry creasing his brow. He held a lemon in his right hand – seeing her look at it, he hid it behind his back with a mildly guilty expression. “. . . Are you okay?”

  “. . . What?” She almost laughed. That was not a question to ask the heir to the throne. No, questions had purposes. Questions had reasons. Questions were always for something – something she could do for them, something she needed to change, something the kingdom needed from her.

  “Can I sit?”

  The absurd amusement died in her throat. She was suddenly aware of the small gashes she’d torn in her coat sleeves, the strands of hair that had fallen in her face, the leaves on her head. She took a shaky breath and buried her face in her hands.

  Evgenis sat down next to her, the leaves crinkling beneath him.

  She hadn’t exactly given him permission, but she also couldn’t find it in herself to tell him to go away. How absurd. He had no authority over her; nothing over her; he was lesser in every way. If she wanted solitude, she should have no trouble giving him the command —

  “You can talk to me,” he offered. He was still looking at her, silently, with his doe-like eyes.

  She wondered what sort of trick this was; what sort of game he was playing. Was he trying to earn favors from her? Trying to gain information? Nobody did this; nobody offered time without a price.

  “I’ll keep it confidential,” he promised. He looked away and began peeling the skin off the lemon. “. . . You don’t have to tell me anything. But, if . . . if there’s anything you need to get out . . . anything you need an ear for, I’d be willing to listen.”

  She wanted to snap at him for assuming she was stupid enough to fall for this ploy. She knew how things worked. And so did he —

  Did he?

  His files — he hadn’t been in school for five years. He hadn’t been sent to Allisora, either, though he would have been the natural choice – exchanged for Lady Clarity Hearth, niece of Peacekeeper Armistice, as part of a program to strengthen their international ties. He was never around the palace, the way the other noble heirs were – chattering with each other and their parents. She tried to remember if he’d even been at the last Heritage Meeting, three years ago. He must’ve been – she recognized him, after all.

  But his files were so slim. Nothing to report. He’d simply disappeared – vanished off the page. Ash Evgenis, the ghost heir.

  Could it be . . . could he truly not understand?

  Or was he betting on this — betting on his disappearance giving her a sense of trust? Was he going to spill her secrets to the public, then snatch the throne from her? Was he —

  “Go away,” she wanted to say. What came out was, instead, a warbly, “. . . I try.” She took a shivering breath, her words fleeing out of her mouth before she could stop them. “I try, so hard. But nobody is willing to cooperate.”

  She was painfully aware of how whiny she sounded. A child who couldn’t have a sweet. Queens weren’t supposed to complain, they were supposed to seek the source of their problems and eliminate them. There was no use to this — words without action. No use to words at all.

  “Why can’t they just listen? The more they do this, the more people think that I can’t control the other holders, my own people, and the more it happens the more I can’t control my own power!” She slapped her hands over her mouth, shivering. Sweat beaded on her skin. How — how had she let that secret out? This could — he could destroy her with this. If word got out —

  He was quiet for a long moment, splitting the wedges of the lemon with his fingers. “‘Control’ is a complicated concept.”

  She didn’t even have time to process what a ridiculous answer that was. “I’m supposed to be in control. I’m going to be the queen.”

  “You’re fifteen.”

  He said it without the mocking bite of her advisors, but with all the same pity. Yes, she was fifteen — but then why had the entire kingdom turned to her when Queen Dynami was on her deathbed? Why was the Service Stone already fixed to her wrist? Why did she have to live every moment constantly reminding herself of her eventual destination? Fifteen or not, she was to be queen in less than three years.

  “Nobody’s ever in total control of their life.”

  “But I’m supposed to be. No other holder of the Service Stone has been unable to control their own powers.”

  His eyes flicked over to her, his expression almost skeptical. “You can . . . learn,” he offered, looking away again.

  “No, I can’t. If anyone finds out about this — what if they think I’m unfit to rule? What if they revoke my right to the throne? Exile me? Execute me? I can’t live —”

  Without my birthright.

  Without my purpose.

  The thought hung between them, silent yet tangible.

  “I . . .” He paused, brown eyes pained. “. . . I know.”

  And for a second she thought he might actually understand. That there could be a connection between them, as different as they were. Both of them were flies trapped in this web, and the only way to break free was to be consumed by the spider. Death or duty, an easy choice.

  But — it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if they had shared background, or similar feelings. She wasn’t here to discuss feelings. His role wasn’t to look at her quietly with sad eyes — he was supposed to be the holder of the Change Stone. He should be training. She should be . . . once more cringing at the amount of paperwork that had accumulated in the filing room.

  She sighed, then brushed the hair out of her face and stood up again. “Forget you saw that,” she snipped, trying to regain control of her voice. Even tone. Crisp articulation. Cold, formidable, intimidating, like the queen’s.

  “It’s okay —” he began.

  She failed. Her voice faltered again as she shut her eyes. “Is it?”

  “Yes. It is.”

  She looked down at him, at this odd creature sitting among the leaf mulch, looking up at her with an emotion she couldn’t even define. “What an entertaining idea.”

  “. . . I know your life must be complicated and messy and stressful, but maybe . . . maybe I could be there for you,” he said, quietly. “If you would trust me.”

  “Trust is a dangerous weapon.”

  “And a needed connection.” He held up a lemon wedge. “We’re social creatures. We don’t survive alone.”

  What was this — this odd twist in her chest, as though yearning to agree? She suddenly felt alone, so alone, and so compelled to stay. It was as though his words had somehow placed a spell on her, given her this desire to listen.

  The Evgenis line hadn’t displayed magic for generations. Otherwise, she might have accused him of such.

  He gazed at her quietly, as if waiting for a cue. The lemon wedge waited in his hand, and she wondered again how anyone could stomach something so sour.

  She glanced up at the sky. Clouds were gathering. A light drizzle of rain had begun, leaving transparent beads of liquid dotting her metal bracelets. She looked back at him, waiting for him to change his mind, to go back in to escape the rain.

  He didn’t.

  She sat down next to him again, took the lemon wedge. She placed it on her tongue and winced at the acidity.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I forget most people don’t like lemons.”

  “Why in the world do you?” she asked. “The peaches are ripe right now; they’ll be harvested tomorrow for sale if the birds don’t get to them first. And instead, you’re . . .” Eating that.

  He paused, the rest of the lemon halfway in his mouth. “Ah – I like the sourness,” he told her. “. . . And I think the lemons get a bit lonely if nobody comes to pick them.”

  Perhaps he truly did give his compassion this easily, if he spent his spare time empathizing with citrus. “It’s a fruit,” she said. “I doubt it has feelings.”

  “Those are just my feelings,” he said. “Personification is another human tendency. We look for ourselves in everything.”

  “Who said that?” she asked, curious now for the source.

  “Oh. I did.” He picked at the skin around his bite mark. “But I’ve spent a lot of time, um, reading textbooks.”

  She blew out a breath, leaned her head back against the rugged bark. “And next, you will tell me you enjoy paperwork.”

  “I like taxes,” he offered, a bit too genuinely.

  She stared at him, unable to help it when a laugh wrangled itself out of her, the absurdity of the situation overcoming her defenses. “. . . Ash Evgenis, I’ve met merchants, soldiers, and nobles alike, and I have yet to hear anyone tell me they enjoy doing taxes. Usually, they ask me to lower them, or to consider lowering them once I ascend to the throne.”

  “It’s probably not a good idea, unless we overturn the Magic Ban or begin loosening restrictions,” he told her. “To lower taxes, I mean. The government needs those funds to construct more schools and facilities and oversight so that we can increase supply back up to meet demand within the restrictions of the ban.”

  She sighed. “Were you not an Evgenis, and were you not a holder, I would appoint you my advisor the moment I turned eighteen.”

  “Oh. Wait, really?”

  She waited for a hint. The moment of satisfaction, the moment where he revealed exactly what he wanted. But all she could see was surprise in his face. “I don’t suppose you enjoy scheduling as well.”

  “I enjoy budgeting,” he said. “It’s more or less the same thing, no? Doling out time instead of money. Deciding what goes where. Fitting it all together.”

  “And perhaps you’d give me accurate plans, too,” she mused, continuing the joke.

  “Do . . . your advisors . . . not?”

  “There’s always something more,” she said. “Always something urgent.” She draped her arms over her knees. “They’re preparing me. I must be present and ready at all times. A queen must be prepared for anything.”

  “Isn’t that . . . um, stressful? I guess I see the intent, but . . .” He trailed off, mumbling something under his breath.

  “My head advisor, Advisor Antinous – he has prime authority over how I spend my time,” she explained. “He deals with all pending requests, and does various complicated things to fit in the maximum amount of appointments per day.” She waved her hand. “It’s all too complex. He does what’s best for the kingdom, and I can simply . . . cooperate.”

  “I’ll do it,” he blurted.

  She paused. “What?”

  “If you’ll let me,” he said. His words came out in a rush, almost too quick to decipher. “He’s a busy man, as your head advisor; I’m sure he can’t complain about a lighter workload. I’ll — I’ll contact him. If there’s a way for you to redirect the requests to me, then I can figure it out. I’ll make sure everyone’s needs are satisfied, while also giving you a bit of breathing space.”

  “That . . .” She tried to wrap her head around that. The joke was suddenly no longer a joke. The ridiculous idea of having a foot on solid ground again, of knowing what to expect . . . She’d accepted it, the shifting nature of her world. With the queen dead, nothing was certain. Indomitable women could die. Her kingdom could shatter. She could have a meeting at dawn and be alerted five minutes before. “It’s . . . complex,” she heard herself say, again.

  There was no other option. Surely. Her advisors, so experienced, chosen by the queen and her attendants . . .

  “Everything in life is complicated,” he said, his words hurrying out as though he were trying to shove as many as possible into the space of a second. “But I can handle this.” There was still a slight tremor in his voice.

  But she found herself believing him. Besides, Advisor Antinous was always complaining about how much work he had, how difficult it was to find her, how many meetings she missed . . . Surely this would benefit them all?

  He’d started rambling about something – a lady with nine dogs, how he’d budgeted for her household and how she hopefully wasn’t spiraling into bankruptcy along with his own, Chioni gathered.

  She opened her mouth to respond, before a loud beep came from her pocket. She took out her communication crystal, its facets gleaming red in the dim light seeping through the clouds. She cursed under her breath, pushed the stray strands of hair out of her face. “How panicked do I look,” she asked, turning to Ash.

  “Not panicked,” he told her. “. . . Angry, maybe.”

  “Good.” That was fine. “I’ll have to answer this.”

  “Of course. Go ahead. I’m, um . . . good luck?”

  Only fools rely on luck, she wanted to say, but over the red glow of the crystal she saw his face, so anxious and sincere. “Thank you,” she said instead. She straightened the collar of her coat and sprinted, already mouthing the words of her advisor’s lecture before pressing the crystal to hear it.

  ?????

  Queen Dynami had died in the first month of the year. Empyrea 5th, just after the celebrations for the new year. There had been four half moons in the sky, and one sliver of a fifth. Chioni had hunkered down on the pebbly shore beneath the palace cliffs in the middle of the night. The waters had been too violent for her to see her new reflection. It had almost felt like mercy.

  She’d stayed there, the salty sea wind blasting in her face, the waters tugging stones past her feet, scraping up her toes. She had felt stiff for days afterwards — stiff and itchy, like the salt had embedded itself in her skin.