chapter one

The air crackles with something I suspect is fear. The faces of my maids are all drawn, tight, stoic. Secrecy hangs in the air, heavy and undeniable. Being in that room forces me to wish I was outside, where the air is cool and breathable in the spring haze. Here, it feels like I’ll suffocate at any minute, and the maids will continue with their serene faces and robotic movements. Those movements only help me feel more out of breath. Like a thread worn too thin, I finally break.

“What is going on?” I try to sound as I am expected to: collected and calm. Regal. But there’s something about their poses, the way they make the bed and clean the mirrors with a precision I’ve never seen before in my eighteen years of life, setting me on edge.

Corina, the maid paying immaculate attention to my cheeks as she cleans them with a weird oil proclaiming to keep wrinkles away, jumps at the sound of my voice. Her eyes fall to the floor. “Nothing, ma’am,” she assures me. I can see right through her, though. She’s not scared for nothing.

I regard my face in the mirror, my blue eyes looking back at me as if to say you need to find out. And so, pushed by my inner self and shaky resolve, I pull away, her bony hands falling from my face to her apron pockets.

“I’m not dumb, Corina.” I know addressing her by her name will have the response I desire. Attention. Her eyes snap to mine. “You’re shaking, and you’re avoiding my gaze. Remember when I told you not to do that? We’re just the same, right?” I remind her, hoping my eyes make the pleading as subliminal as I need it to be. She raises her head, nodding once. “What is happening?”

She inhales loudly like she’ll need the breath to brace herself for whatever she is about to say, before answering. “There’s the letters again, ma’am. The threats.”

It was to be expected. The rebels had remained quiet for longer than dad had thought. They did this to seek attention, spread fear among us. It barely succeeded, though it fed the courts’ otherwise boring gossips. If it did succeed, it was around the personnel, the people who didn’t know what was happening now. A clear example of this being my innocent maids. I nod once as she goes back to work on my face.

“Well, what was it this time?”

She dusts a pink powder on my cheeks, her tongue between her teeth in concentration. The other two maids in the room eye Corina, daring her to answer. I smile softly, letting her know she can trust me. I’m not as mean as mom is with them. They should know it by now. But they still act as if they’re about to get slapped with every move they make.

She stammers. “It’s, uh... a letter on young Lucas’ chambers. A dead bird on the mattress.” To compensate for the blow, her fingers barely caress my skin, soft as a feather, as she lays a thick coat of makeup on my features.

While the others stop what they’re doing to listen to my answer, I let the words replay in my head. Last time this happened it had been in my room. I’d woken one morning before Corina had the chance to shake my shoulder feebly as she does every morning to a rancid smell coming from my room. At first, I had thought I was still dreaming until I felt a slick substance fall down my face. I reached to wipe it, my fingers becoming crimson as I blinked away the sleep. I’d screamed, opening my eyes to reveal a horse’s head on my headrest. Another brutal, gruesome warning.

The incident, however, had been over two years ago. They’d remained quiet for way too long now. One could almost say everyone was waiting on their tiptoes, eager and ready, knowing something of this nature was coming again any time now.

We never spoke about it at the meetings, dances, and banquets, though. It made us seem weak if we did, strong and united if we didn’t. Others were aware it was happening, but we played it off as if it didn’t scare us. Like we saw it coming. Perhaps dad and mom did.

“How’s Lucas?” I ask while the other maid making the bed rushes to me, tightening my corset. Lucas had it way easier than I had. A horse’s head was haunting, while a dead bird could’ve made me cry at the most.

As soon as I feel my back being forced to remain upright by the tightness of the garment, I twirl around, smiling at the maid, prodding her on.

“He just warned the guards. Not much happened,” Corina says, bending over to puff the corset.

The other maid nods in agreement, green eyes flashing up to me. “He’s not the screamer type, ma’am.”

Corina’s eyes go wide with the implication, and on the other side of the room, the other maid drops something, followed by a strangled gasp. The room stops, taunting my reaction. I giggle. They’re right to say he’s not. Ever since we were little, he was a lot more composed than I was. My giggle seems to ease the tension of Corina, and the maid before me, Liliana, smiles lightly.

“No, I guess he’s not. Can’t say the same thing about me, huh?” I tease, turning around back to the mirror as I slip on a pair of golden heels.

Corina shrugs her light shoulders, her earlier hesitation gone. “I wouldn’t know, ma’am.”

“Liliana, who is the biggest screamer? Mom or me?”

The maid behind me stumbles to my side, bowing her head clumsily, bringing it up once again to make sure she heard right. “You... ma’am... you know my name?” she asks, ignoring my question with a surprised yet pleased expression taking place in her features.

I shake my head, raising my arms so Corina can slip the blue dress over me. Jewels and silk. Useless things. “I know the names of everyone I care about,” I say, sliding my hands down my sides once the silk is in place. The fabric is a soft ghost against my skin. They are people I see daily, people whom I care about—for the ones I’ll be a good queen in the future. “I’m not my mother or my father, Liliana. You’re Abigail, right?” I ask the other maid to prove my point, her back immediately straightening from where she was hunching down dusting off the bureau.

Corina is the oldest but the kindest of the three. She’s older than mom, but there’s something jovial about her personality. Whenever she’s in my room, the air somehow feels lighter, more welcoming. With brown eyes and hair, soft features and crinkles around her eyes, she is as harmless as a fly. Liliana is the one in the middle. Thirty, I’d say. She has auburn hair and green eyes, though hers are somehow... dull. Stripped of life, a flame extinguished. Like she’s seen too much. I’ve never asked about it and probably never will, but I know without a doubt life has been hard on her. Abigail is shy, younger than Liliana. Her blonde hair falls to her back in a long, neat braid, brown eyes predisposed and ready to attend my needs.

Her eyes, wide like a deer’s, turn to me, nodding once before focusing with laser vision on killing any dust mites left. “We know you’re not His Royal Highness or the Lady,” Corina says, showing a sign of comrade by diverting the attention from Abigail. “When your reign comes, we know you’ll show us mercy.”

I clutch a hand to my chest. “Oh, Corina, don’t say that. I hope I don’t even have time to rule,” I whine, closing my eyes.

I know being the firstborn of the house, someday I’ll have to rule. I’ve been preparing for the moment that might never come my entire life. I know this is a fact, but a tiny part of me can’t help but let the spark hoping I never have to take my father’s place live. It shivers, threatening to snuff out of existence. I do my best to keep it aflame.

“Long live the king!” Liliana exclaims with fake excitement, laying her hand on my shoulder and guiding me to my vanity mirror.

I conjure up a smile. “Long live the king,” I echo.

****

My room is everything a royal room should be. Big, tall, and luxurious. There’s gold—whether fake or real, I don’t really care— everywhere you look at. It’s a wonderful sight compared to the decaying buildings a few streets down. The windows and the mirror are outlined by gold roses, while the bed sheets are a pale brown, the rose details on gold there, too. There’s a fireplace I rarely use, curtains black as the night, anything to ensure me a proper night’s sleep. The bed is big enough to fit three people, and the rest of the space is filled with a red and gold rug.

If it were up to me, my room would be less expensive, more... me. I’ve been raised to know I have money to buy anything I want. The gold I’m wearing is enough testament to my family’s wealth. I abhor it. I hate the thought of my family and me showering in gold and jewels while people outside the castle are starving, dying as collateral damage the war has brought upon us all. They don’t have the walls or the guards to ignore and escape the various attempts. If I had a say at all, I’d get rid of the charade. A bed is a bed, whether it is dressed in gold or in nothing but linen. If I were to tell so to mom though, she’d give me her disapproving glance. We’re lucky, she’d say, these luxuries are the things people need to believe in us, in our authority, the things you’ll need once your reign comes, Alexa.

Even if it is true, I can’t help my aversion to the unnecessary expenses and the charade we keep up with to maintain the nobility happy. I still hope not to sit on dad’s throne. Maybe I’ll die first. Or Lucas will get married and have a boy—that would surely switch the line to him. It’d make the realm safer, stronger. If only...

A hurried knock on the door startles Liliana and me, my black hair now pulled back in a crown around my head. I haven’t worn an actual one yet, but my days are spent in dread, thinking on the day I will. Believe it or not, some have already been made. Custom-fit, just for me. I feel bare without my hair free. It makes me self- conscious. People might see through me, through my insecurity and fear when it comes to being the next queen.

I stand up in practiced motions, ambling to the door, beating Corina to it. The door opens in smooth hinges. “Alex, you ready?” Lucas, green eyes wide and perky, smiles at me while leaning against the door frame.

“I didn’t realize we had plans. Where are we going?” I ask, the maids bowing at the sight of my brother. Plans or not, he’s a welcomed distraction and might explain to me the doubts taking place in my head. Doubts I didn’t even know I had.

He seems eerily calm. No hint of the rumored threat in his lingering smile. With his brown hair and green eyes, he’ll be just like father when he grows older. Same stance and posture. The way he carries himself alone speaks of power, something I’ll never be able to muster even if I rehearse it. It’s natural. For me, it’s like a second skin I refuse to wear.

“I thought we could have breakfast together today,” he says, eyeing the maids with a smirk. “There’s a couple of things we should catch up on.”

I’m used to his charms on the personnel. My maids couldn’t be younger than twenty, but too old and off-limits for someone like my brother. Someone powerful and feared. Still, he enjoys the thrill of it, never allowing those ideas to thwart his efforts. The little luxuries he is still allowed to have.

“Like the dead bird on your chambers?” I tease, stepping aside as he pushes past me, trudging to my bed and settling on the edge.

He’s wearing a navy blue fitted tux, the only thing that stops him from lying on my bed, arms and legs spread wide open. His favorite pose when he was younger, back when father didn’t struggle to appear taller than him. Paired with glinting rings in each of his fingers, and slick brown hair pushed back, he looks every bit regal as dad does. Or as I do—out of force.

“The rumors do spread fast then, huh?” he asks, amused. “It wasn’t all bad, though. I mean, dad has been talking about the rebels and how they were holding back for months now. This is a relief, truth be told. Now that it happened, he’ll shut up about it,” he explains, flickering his hand in a gesture no one would notice but me. He does this when something bothers him, but he can’t let it show, so his response to it is indifference.

I wouldn’t know what dad talks about lately. I seldom see him, let alone have private conversations with him. The court tries to teach me the legal procedures, and I’ve always grown used to the idea: no matter what day it is, dad is always busy. At least for me. I’ve never had much of a bond with him, unlike Lucas. He is dad’s trusted advisor, despite being younger than me. I’m eighteen. He’s sixteen. Not much of a difference, but when it comes to the birthright to rule, the crown falls on my head. Life’s way to get to everyone.

“Well, we knew this would happen,” I say, gesturing with my hand to Corina. They’re done for today. Sweeping in a low bow again, hushed tones and scared glances, they retreat from the room. “The rebels have always been here. Since... ever. Dad knows they won’t just go away because they’ve grown tired of the war.”

The Coltrane Measures started almost thirty years ago, in 1063. Our grandfather, Rodrick Coltrane, had proclaimed a series of decrees in order to keep the growing population from becoming too much. Food was becoming scarce, even for the nobility, for the royals. The peasants would die in masses every single day, victims of starvation and diseases, and so he came up with an idea not only to reduce the population but to gain some income: marriage became possible only under the authorization of the crown. That meant every woman from the year twelve till the end of her life would be able to be sold to kings of other countries and high nobility of ours. Anyone who had enough money to purchase them, for the matter, all by the order of the king. This helped the economy. The money the crown got within a year from three weddings a day on a good month became enough to trade and produce crops, solving the rationing issue. Since they were no longer having sex just for the sake of it, the overpopulation issue went away as well, all with one stone.

Abortion became illegal. The crown gets daily gold from the babies born all around the country, all of them counted and mediated.

Obviously, the women who were married forcefully as a property of the crown were outraged when, not only were they forced to hold a marriage with some other man they didn’t know, but now they were also required to bear children and no way out of that life. The penalty if they came close to trying? Death.

As if to counter the balance, children began to be left behind by their mothers once the crown got what they wanted: the registration. Once a child had a name before the church, they’d be dumped on the streets. These children were, however, no longer a problem of the crown unless they were females, and adultery practice grew alarmingly.

Baby girls left behind would become part of a nursery office—or orphanage, depends on who you ask—, polishing them so when they became old enough, they’d be more expensive. The men who were not capable to pay for a service for the perfect match by the crown were upset, so they’d pay people with women working for them in exchange of a night with the woman. This happened rather often, but the crown chose to look the other way. Money spoke, and soon, women became the church’s property first and the money’s property second.

The children left behind are put into an orphan home. I have never been there, but Greece has. According to her, the children there are as good as if they were wandering the streets, not being controlled or cared for. Lack of food or predisposition mark their lives forever.

The war—or a series of unfortunate outbursts, as everyone calls them—broke out a couple of years after the decrees were settled. Thirteen years ago, Rodrick was assassinated by the rebels. Thereon, father took power and security was increased tenfold, but the brides had only brought worse upon themselves. The council was outraged by the death of granddad in hands of the Brides, as they call the rebels, so they didn’t remove the decrees as the rebels had wanted. Instead, they raised the stakes and started marrying women right and left since before they even turned ten. Ever since then, this war has become a push and pull between the rebels and the crown. I want the war to be over. It’s been thirteen years since the first official declaration of war, and I doubt dad will relent the decrees anytime soon.

The warnings became imminent since father took power: the brides wanted the decrees dropped, but dad wouldn’t recede. These threats were for nothing but to show dad and the crown with each passing day and another marriage approved, there were more sympathizers. Give us what we want, the threats seemed to say, we’ll leave the crown alone if you do. But dad is smart. A king born. Instructed, perfected, carved to perfection. He knows if he were to cave in, they’d notice a weak spot on the royal family like they’d never seen before: fear, a crack too good to let pass. They’d try and tear us down as a revenge for the years of slavery. Dad wouldn’t allow them the gratification.

“But we can’t relent, either. We wouldn’t be able to deal not only with the economic hit it would take but with the way other countries would view that, us. We would be shamed,” echoes Lucas, following my train of thought.

“Even more shameful than the way women are viewed?” I counter, standing like an elephant in the middle of the room. “I understand dad’s doing what the council advises, but it doesn’t make the decrees right. He could overrule the council if he wanted.”

He shrugs lazily, standing up and extending his hand for me to take. My fingers slip in his, a warm comfort. “That’s another way to see it. I hope you never have these stupid ideas once you take power. They could cost us the realm.” And your safety. He doesn’t say the words, but they’re plain and real in his darting, green eyes.

I roll mine. If I ever rule, I would never be allowed to drop the decree. I’ve been told so repeatedly since I was young. Drilled inside my brain since before I learned to speak. Being the first female on power if dad dies or abdicates, the council and other countries fear me joining the brides’ side and taking away the law that made everything better for us. “Even if I wanted to, I can’t,” I begin as we stroll through the deserted hallways. “The council would never allow me to do it.”

“True,” says Lucas. “But you’d be queen. The council could suck it if you asked them to. Nicely, of course,” he repeats my early stance as a mantra. Dad could overrule the council if he wanted to, but he knows the council exists for a reason, and undermining their power would be nothing but foolish. A king is nothing without supporters, and father knows it.

As much as I hate the idea of ever taking power and supporting the council’s crooked ways, I smile despite myself, punching his arm softly. “Mom wouldn’t approve of that vocabulary,” I mock.

“Mom isn’t here,” he retorts, guiding the way to the garden.

The castle is usually empty at this time of the day. Our wing is, at least. The courtiers and nobles wander around through the middle of the day, but we rarely encounter them. My schedule is simple, keeping me busy and away from the public eye: wake up, court teachings, council talks and dad’s hearing assemblies. If it’s a special day, I join a banquet or a dance ball at the end of the day. My days are monochrome, they blend into one another, but they are easy to handle.

“I thought we were having breakfast?” I question as he nods once at the guard when we approach the door.

There’s not a place I know scarier than the castle. There are passageways and alleys I’ve never been in. I know nothing about the castle and the secrets these walls hide, but Lucas knows them like a memorized map inside his mind. Perks of having to scurry off with random maids unsupervised.

To get to the garden we have to go down two flights of stairs, pass through the preposterous art gallery, the grand salon, and splendid dance hall, as well as the kitchen. Everything is adorned in gold or jewels, and the smell is dusty, even if I’m sure there are maids brushing away the dust of these hallways daily.

He smirks, winking at me. “Breakfast inside would mean people eavesdropping and after the hell of a morning I just had, I could use some privacy. You do, too. You feel very strongly about this matter,” he states as he opens the door, the air hitting my face, calming my unease.

Spring is just around the corner, though the temperature is relatively high for the end of winter. My blue dress is sleeveless, but the material itself is tight, constricting, making my skin struggle to breathe.

“I’m a woman. I feel strongly about my rights,” I say.

The small table in the middle of the diminutive clearing is arranged with tea and fruit already, making me notice Lucas had planned this since before. This spontaneous breakfast has a meaning, a purpose behind it, no matter what my brother tries to hide.

He is impeccable when it comes down to persuading. He can smile at you with his conqueror’s teeth and charm you into signing off the property of your houses in thirty minutes. A skill, something useful in becoming a monarch. Another talent I don’t possess.

The garden itself is bare, trees with no leaves to offer. It’s dauntingly beautiful. Recent rain makes the cracked pavement wet, drying in the sun steadily rising.

He squeezes my hand resting on his arm once. He doesn’t want to hurt me with his serious tone. “But it doesn’t concern you. Not yet, anyway. And the decree doesn’t include you or any royal, for the matter.”

I sigh as he pulls the chair for me while I struggle to fit my dress in the seat. “Royal or not, my wedding is already planned, isn’t it?” I ask, holding eye contact with him. Because this is what this is about. I can see right through him. I know my brother’s schemes like I know my hand. “Yes, it might not be for money for the crown, but for stability. Either way, I’m the property of the crown just like those women.”

His eyebrows knit in confusion. “But you’re the next queen. Arrangements have to be made for the well-being of the realm,” he notes, sliding into the chair before me.

There it is. The purpose is to tell me my wedding is being planned as we speak, and I have no say on the matter. He was sent here to soften the blow so when I truly find out the details, they won’t hurt as much. I don’t blame him for being sent as dad’s messenger. Dad’s greediness and calculative measures can hardly be blamed on brother.

I look around, leaning myself on the table. Stability for the country in exchange for my happiness. I know it’s the way I should see it, but it doesn’t mean I agree with it. My life should be mine and mine only.

“So, you say dad has already found someone for me, then?” I am aware of the way my voice quivers. Before he has a chance to find my eyes, I turn away, examining the engraved stone with a C on it. Coltrane. A last name as much as a curse.

Me marrying young has been mom’s priority since I was twelve. I’ve been stalling whenever they bring another round of suitors. I don’t feel ready to give myself up. I know I’ll have to eventually, but it doesn’t mean I can’t keep running away from it.

Lucas squirms on his seat, the fabric of his suit scuffing together. I don’t dare to make eye contact. “Someone plausible, yes. I can’t tell you who it is, though.” I huff. A surprise. He knows how much I hate those. “I’ve authorized him if it makes you feel any better,” he adds, taking a sip of the tea to stop speaking, afraid he’ll go off and say too much. He has dad’s manners, too. Steady voice, calm demeanor, authoritative figure. He’d make a better king than I’ll ever make as queen, but life doesn’t seem to think the same way.

I don’t feel ready to discuss the future keen on rushing to meet me, so I switch the topic instead. “What are your views on this, Lucas? As much as you’re like dad, you must think differently, too. I know you do.” His eyes flicker. He knows exactly what I mean. Hope stirs inside me, slow and consuming.

By the way he leans back on his chair and blinks at me, I can tell he’s taken aback by my question. My guess is he isn’t asked about matters and his opinion much often, which is why he takes a while before answering. “I think the decree was a mistake, but it worked, nonetheless. As long as you’re not sold off like property, I’m fine. I hate it, yes, but there’s nothing I can do, Alex.” I hear dad’s voice through his. Just like he has tried to do me, Lucas proved a much easier prey. Brainwashed into obedience.

“You could tell dad about it,” I push, taking his hand in mine across the table. His fingers grip mine at once, cold and soft. The hands of a prince. All appetite I had was lost the moment he showed up at my door. The tea beside me must be cold by now. “He likes your advice. He’d listen to you.”

The wind picks up, ruffling his hair. “We can’t give the decree up without risking him, Alex. Or you. It’s the way it’s been for over three decades. The council wouldn’t hear it, even if dad proposed it.”

And he’s right. I can see the way his eyes seem to look at our hands rather than me. He’s ashamed. He didn’t make the decree, and he clearly doesn’t stand with it, but even if he wanted to, there’s nothing he can do for the matter. It’s the crown or the women’s rights. It’s not rocket science to leave women on the backseat.

I sigh, trying to blow off some steam. I can’t take it out against him. My frustration will only deepen his own. Begrudgingly, I decide to open his can of worms. “I hope my suitor is like you. Idea wise, I mean. Women deserve the right to marry whoever they want. I should be the one with an arranged marriage for their own good.” If marrying someone I don’t know meant leaving all the other women to continue with their lives and stop being the crown’s property, I’d do it without a protest. I’m not foolish enough to think that’s the case.

“Don’t worry,” he assures me. “He’s central. His family doesn’t support the idea but doesn’t talk against it.” It means he probably has a sister. The only reason why a rich family wouldn’t support the decree.

I nod. Dread is quickly replaced by obtuse curiosity. “Any idea when I’ll meet him?”

He scoffs, taking another sip of the tea. He sets the cup down with a giant hand but graceful manners, just like I’ve seen dad do a thousand times before. The other wrist tangled in my fingers twitches. “As soon as dad’s not as busy as he is today. He was upset this morning. Apparently, my chambers weren’t the only ones to receive a kind visit from the brides.”

It’s not a surprise, it just seems unlikely. I pull my hand free from his, blinking at him. “What do you mean? How do they even get in, to begin with?”

It has never made sense to me how they can place the threats and everything in between without being caught by the guards. How they even go past the doors escapes my knowledge.

“Dad got a deer on his room with a note, too. And I don’t know. I guess the personnel isn’t a hundred percent loyal as we thought. The maids have been married off by the crown too, so it makes sense.” The first part is the one that astounds me. The last one is obvious enough to swim through my brain unnoticed.

“A deer?” I ask, leaning closer. The mere thought of it makes my hairs stand on end, a roll of nausea sweeping over me. I try to swallow a stale piece of bread that found its way to my hand for lack of a better thing to do. “What did the note say? Did you see it?”

He huffs, raising a hand to mess with his hair. “It was stupid. But what can you expect from them? ‘You have a daughter. Will you sell her, too?’” His smirk on his lips reveals something to me I hadn’t noticed before. He is scared.

My eyes widen and my mind spins. Fear isn’t something he feels often. Whatever it is, he can feel it looming, knowing much more than I do. Still, I don’t fear for myself. Worrying over it with guards rounding the perimeter of the castle, keeping me safe but hostage in a prison carved in diamonds is a waste of time.

“Is that what the letter said?” I wouldn’t dare to believe it.

“Little do they know your marriage is one that’s arranged, too,” he confirms, shaking it off like it’s nothing. His voice takes a sarcastic tone at the comment. He hates my wedding is nothing but for the good of others. But then again, what good would it do for him to go against the idea drilled to our heads since we were born? He shouldn’t be scared. If he is, there’s something he’s not letting me see. And I’ll find out.

“What’s the view of the council?”

He heaves a breath, tipping his head on his hands. “They think we should change personnel, but otherwise, they’re pretty nonchalant. We knew this was coming.”

We did, but the threats are getting stronger if they got to my parents’ chambers.

“It’s the first threat they get, right?” I ask, knowing the answer already. “Never before had it been on my dad’s chambers.”

Green eyes flicker to my face. I see the wheels of realization spinning in his brain. “Right you are,” he says.

“Meaning the threats are becoming stronger. There are riots, too, aren’t there? In the main cities? Hell, maybe even outside the castle.”

The realization hits me: this isn’t just a war fought through notes and animals. It’s a real deal, something becoming bigger and more powerful by the second. A real threat imposed on the monarchs. My parents.

A real war outside the castle, in the fields and the borders, doesn’t sound like an impossibility anymore. In fact, a pull in my gut tells me it’s exactly what’s happening, why father has detached himself from us even more than usual. He’s not dealing with just rebels anymore. Riots he kept controlled through the years arise with ferocious hunger. It has always been a battlefield; I was just too blind and naïve to take notice.

His eyebrows rise, amused. “How do you know?”

“Don’t you see?” I ask, gesturing around us. “They’re becoming bolder by the second. We didn’t stop them before when they were on our chambers, and if we don’t stop them now the same thing that happened to Rodrick—”

He raises his hand, shaking his head. “No, Alex,” he interrupts, “that won’t happen again. Dad’s chambers are secured every hour of the day. He has guards right and left.”

I’m sure he has seen to it personally. There’s no one else who wants to believe that as badly as I do. I may not be the golden child dad wants, but I still care for him, no matter what the others’ view of him is. And if he were to be harmed, the future I’m so keen to dodge would come for me, unrelenting.

“The threat got through your pretentious security protection,” I point out, crossing my arms. “These threats aren’t just a threat anymore, are they? Tell me, Lucas, is there something I should know?”

I say it to taunt his reaction, see where his mind lies, but the way his eyes avoid mine and focus on the dead bush taking the worst of the winter beside us makes me realize my gut was right.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” he says, shaking his head. “The council has it covered.” I’ve heard those words repeated a thousand times before.

Refusing to let the subject go, I prod, “But the threats are growing. Riots. Maybe even war. How do they control that?”

His eyes flicker with something I can’t decipher, and before I have the chance to, the feeling is gone, replaced by a challenging serenity. “It’s not your matter to worry about now,” he says, whispering it to me like coaxing a child to eat vegetables. It’s all he offers. I’m used to this now. Him behaving older than he is, keeping me steady and sane. But I don’t want those roles anymore. I’m stronger than he is, older, wiser. And the crown will be on my head one day, not his.

“Not now,” I give in. “But when I become queen it will be.”

He seems to acknowledge this because he backtracks, tumbling over the words. “If we’re lucky, the war will be over once you take your place on the realm.” The way he says it tells me he doesn’t believe it, though. His words are something perfected to keep me calm, but a lie, nonetheless. War. The first time anyone cares to acknowledge the real issue as it is in the castle. People outside the walls use this term, but not us. Why would we? They’re the flies, we’re the spiders. They can’t harm us.

Until now.

Frustration leaks in my voice. “The war won’t be over without us dropping the decree. Dad knows this. What else is there, then? What is there I don’t know about? What’s next?”

His lack of response is enough for me. In this aspect, he and dad are as baffled as I am. And it can only mean one thing: they’re not ready for whatever’s next.

***

Purple and blue lights dance across my vision as a soft ballad blasts through the speakers. The only thing we seem to be able to do while the country, our country, is burning in the pits of hell is throwing measly parties. To celebrate what, I’ll never know. People mingle around, dresses that could feed ten families for a month, tall hairdos and polished suits.

I, as the heiress to the throne, must endure this pain in the ass in the first point of view.

Our table stands in the middle of the room, big and imposing, while we get a glance to everyone and everything going on around us. The dance floor filled to the brim with royals and nobles almost as tall and demanding as us—but not quite—is behind us. In front of us, dozens of tables covered with silk tabletops stand. From the ceiling, chandeliers hang like there’s no force of gravity. By their size, they could fall on our heads any minute now, but mom doesn’t seem the least bothered as she engages into a hushed conversation with dad. I wish they would. I wish one of those metal and glass intricacies would fall on my head. That way, I wouldn’t have to stand the boredom of this doomed pageantry.

It’s night now, and even if my breakfast with my brother was more than twelve hours ago, thoughts I didn’t know were there before begin to take place in the mingling mess my conscience has become.

The decree is wrong. I’ve felt it since I was young, back when I didn’t understand what it meant. It just never felt right. Now, the thought is truer than I ever felt it before, and no matter how much they feed the thoughts down our throats, nothing good can come out of it. Sure, it helped the imminent hunger people went through thirty years ago, but Rodrick should’ve been smarter. Searching for another way which wouldn’t compromise women as the decrees do should’ve been his top priority. If you search deep enough, there’s always another way to solve something, a door you had missed before.

Still, instead of trying to figure it out and returning the country to the way it had once been, dad and the other bunch of careless nobles spin and dance and laugh like there’s no tomorrow. Like there are no children being left behind, mothers committing suicide or dying in illegal hospitals trying to get an abortion. They’re blind to the problem, their lives perfect and luxurious.

To my left, father stands up on quick feet, grabbing his glass and hitting it softly with a fork to catch the guests’ attention. The music lowers in response, and the yellow lights come back on, people frozen and expectant on father’s speech.

“Welcome to our humble gathering, people.” His voice is soft leather, ready to caress his people just in the right places. His profile is perfect, stoic, the living embodiment of a king. “As you know, we’re being press to rumors around the capital and the state of the rebellion. Be assured they’re just that: rumors. They didn’t have a hold on us before, and the rebels don’t have a hold on us now. We are safe, the crown is safe.” His hand movements emphasize his speech. I almost believe it myself. His voice is powerful. Passion bleeds through. My ear, however, has been trained to notice and craft lies since I was a baby. And it is exactly what father is doing. Lying. “Do you really think if we got letters from those short- tempered rebels, they’d still have their heads attached to their body?” He stops, allowing a chuckle from the guests to mark his point.

He’s playing the perfect illusion for them, and he’s a good magician. Lying and hiding in plain sight are his talents. Once again dismissing everything the media is saying to make us seem strong, insurmountable. He’s giving these people what they want. Reassurance, trust, power. The feeling of strength when it’s clear it is gone but carefully faked.

“Today, however, those rumors don’t bother us. Today we’re here to celebrate our upcoming queen and our prince, Alexandra and Lucas Coltrane.” His eyes fall from the front of the room to us, silent and demanding. Just like puppets, we stand up in graceful motions, giving smiles and waves like we are enjoying this senseless celebration.

“We haven’t found a suitor capable enough to rule the country beside my daughter once I’m gone, but be assured once we do, the party will be this one times ten.” The crowd nods along, but no cheers are heard. The pressure shifts. He isn’t done. He continues. “For once, we have news just as interesting. My younger son, Lucas, will be marrying soon, for all intentions and purposes of the crown, holding our realm in strength and power. Dignity and purpose.”

The room cheers, their voices roaring in my chest. Shrieks and claps echo around, nails against a chalkboard. I zoom out. If they knew what’s really happening, how close we are to tipping the balance and falling over, would they continue to cheer?

The announcement regarding my brother takes me by surprise. Still standing up, I drop my smile, turning my head to eye him. He holds my glance back, a sly smirk on his lips.

He didn’t tell me any of this in the morning, and even if part of me knows I kept steering the conversation back to the war and never gave him a real chance at doing so, I can’t help but feel hurt.

Does he know who the girl will be? Did it come as a surprise for him, too? No, I think, he’s as close to father as one can be. Of course, he knew. He chose to keep it from me. The telltale signs are there. His smug behavior, the way his shoulders rise with determination. He knew.

I jump once my thoughts are broken by the people before us, chanting. “Long may he reign!”

For the first time in my life, I realize if dad does reign for long, people won’t keep chanting his name.

***

As we twirl around the dance floor, the music loud enough to hush our conversation, I grip dad’s hand. Touching him and being this close rarely happens, which is why some part of me can’t fight the urge to talk to him. Talk to him like a queen would, not his daughter. His hand is steady. Mine is clammy, shaking. Some part of me is. I haven’t been rejected, but I know I will be. Father will catalog this as one of my various tantrums.

I search for my voice, focusing my eyes on his face. He looks alive for once. Pleased, even. The lines on his face are faint but concealed behind a dashing smile.

“Dad, you know you can overrule the council if you wanted to, right?”

The question draws his wandering, green eyes back to me, his shoulders shrugging under my hand. “I could. But why would I need to?”

He is a man good at dismissing people in two sentences. I feel like a mouse standing before a cat. I wish we didn’t have to have this conversation as we’re dancing, use it to keep these memories for when he’s gone instead. But I barely get a hold of him, and I need to let him know. Make sure he understands what I want, what I mean. What I plan to do once his crown belongs to me.

I drop my eyes. Even before my father, I know my place. I can be an heiress in title, but right now, I’m not playing like his daughter. I’m playing like a subject. One more puppet for him to string.

“The decree isn’t right, dad.” I know saying this will upset him. Or disappoint him. Maybe both. But people rioting against us and the war becoming more and more strained do little to ease my mind.

He sighs, leaning closer till his mouth is next to my ear, warmth breath fanning against my skin. I don’t hear anything on his voice. It’s even, steady. Uncaring. “The decree is there for a reason, Alexandra. There’s nothing I or you can do about it.” His words drip disdain, and I flinch, pulling away. I hate the way we must look. The two people wielding the most power in the room holding a friendly father-to-daughter conversation. If they only knew.

I fight to keep my feet on rhythm with the music. Father’s feet have danced this piece with mother thousands of times before. He keeps me swaying on steady feet, never faltering.

“Saying a woman is worth gold and undeserving of rights speaks wrong about our kingdom. What do other continents think of us?” I shoot back, never losing a step in this rehearsed dance.

Other continents don’t use this government anymore. They succumbed against the pressure of equality, democracy. Even the word sounds ludicrous. But not us. We still reign based on family lines and archaic traditions. We haven’t fallen. Not yet.

But part of me hopes we will.

He takes my other hand, following the dance by pushing me away and twirling me back, my back falling to his chest. “What they think of us shouldn’t concern you. What should concern you is keeping the crown on my head so that someday it might fall on yours,” he growls, low enough for me to hear in the room full of joy and people. His pressure on my hands tightens ever so slightly. He won’t hurt me, but it’s enough to make sure I know who’s in charge.

“So I keep hearing,” I say. My skin prickles with anticipation, knowing I’ll say something I’ll regret in the morning. That knowledge, however, doesn’t stop me from saying it.

I pull away and turn, staring into his eyes and willing my voice to come as stable, regal. I draw every inch of the queen I am to the full height. “So just like they sell women, you’ve sold your own daughter, too.”

And if the blow hit, if it hurt him, his stoic façade is never broken as the music stops. He drops my hand, pulling my arm from his shoulders and strolling to our table, leaving me behind on the dance floor without an answer. A doll he got tired of playing with. Someone whose opinions don’t matter. Any other day, I’d let the thought hurt me. Deepen the wound he’s created by taking the place of a king, losing my father behind silk and jewels. But not today. If anything, his blazing attitude leaves me resolute. Stubborn as he might be, we share the same quality for once.

But I can’t ignore the threat behind his words.

That’s just the way it has been. The way it will be. Because no matter how much I try or how many walls we build, how many magic tricks we make, there’s only one truth: women and men aren’t the same, and they’ll never be.

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HELLO! this is like the fifth time i post this because i hadn't figured it out but anyway I AM SO NERVOUS. this is the first chapter of my first book and it is a project i've been working on for years. any feedback would be appreciated and with some luck youll warm up to the characters as much as i have.

if you made it this far, thank you SO much and let me know if you'd like to be tagged in future chapters!

profuse greetings,

-goldenmel