I cradled it against my still damp chest, back bowed.
A moment of silence for my Clan, for which so many of my ancestors had fought and endured.
We’d birthed our magic out of thin air, scraps of energy, and our own stubbornness to survive, yet here we were, with an usurper at its helm, on the brink of collapse.
As for me, I’d been cast aside and the people of Aquila only remembered my name to curse it.
I had the crown, but my throne had been stolen.
But what if I could reclaim it?
The question was so sudden, so foreign, it felt like the crown itself had whispered it to me.
I stared down at it. The middle spire, the tallest and most fearsome, encased my reflection, elongating it until the sharp tip.
I’d expected to see fear and apprehension.
I only saw determination.
The murmur of something more.
I hated how much I yearned for it to be true.
Were the hidden runes calling me to duty?
Warning me?
Perhaps they sensed the impending war. Could detect the slither of the snakes and the schemes crafted in the shadows against us. My thumb traced the cold rim, wanting and wary all at once.
Whoever held the crown could lead the Protectorate army. The Blood Brotherhood had the fiercest warriors in Malhaven, but thousands of more weapons could sway the war in our favor faster, before more of those monster snakes had a chance to hatch.
Dax was right, we needed any advantage–and this was one the Serpents couldn’t even dream of buying with their overflowing vaults.
Silas could keep the throne. For now.
I held the true Protectorate power in my hands.
In a flurry, I rushed to the mirror, possibility drumming through me.
Grandpa Constantine had always said there were no coincidences. Dax falling from the sky to bring me the crown before a war read like a legend leaped off ancient pages.
I stared at myself in the mirror for the longest time, now caressing the metal like an old friend, finally reunited.
Doubts drummed through me.
None of my cousins–except Evie, perhaps; Grandpa Constantine had been nothing but thorough in his love andlessons to her before she’d vanished–knew about the secret hidden in the crown.
Grandpa Constantine had been unwavering in his wisdom. The crown had been carved from a cannon barrel used in battle, but beneath its iron weight, hidden runes had been melted into it, to temper power with wit.
I was the only person alive, except for Uncle Maksim, who’d seen the veiled symbols light up when my father had placed the crown on his own head.
The symbols had turned silver, then. Uncle Maksim had whispered to me that Grandpa Constantine’s had always been blue.
Harmony versus courage.
No symbols, no leading the Protectorate army.
No true heir.
