Owen grunts noncommittally. “Like I said, I’m certain he’s already briefed you on the state of the country. Between the Vasgaard Square attack and the death of the king so soon after, there’s been a surge of patriotism throughout Germania. People are embracing the monarchy. Hell, they’re embracingeach otherin a way they haven’t since the empire’s glory days.” His mouth twists wryly. “You’ve seen the flags front of every house… The blue ribbons tied around every tree… The size of the crowd at your father’s funeral rites. I hear they were the most highly attended in history. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for it, Ems. I watched it on the news. You were so stoic. I was damn proud of you.”
I cough lightly, trying to clear the lump in my throat. In truth, most of the day I buried my father remains a blur in my memory. I was so deep in my own grief, I could not yet see the surface of the murky depths surrounding me on all sides. I could not yet pull a clean breath of air into my lungs or summon energy to pump my arms and swim for even the faintest sliver of light. It felt utterly impossible that a day might arrive when each moment would not feel like drowning; each water-logged breath a death-sentence.
Owen clears his throat, drawing my attention back. “If you’d actually bothered to have a coronation instead of locking yourself away in this castle, it would’ve been a record turn-out, I’m sure.”
I recoil slightly. “I was a bit busy attending the funerals of thirty-nine Germanians. Forty, if you include my father in that tally. It didn’t exactly feel appropriate to hold a big ceremony in honor of my new reign while I was burying my countrymen.”
It also hadn’t felt appropriate to enjoy the holiday season as it came and went without fanfare. Or to celebrate my twenty-first birthday as it slipped by unmarked.Or do anything at all except cry and cry and cry until there were no tears left to fall.
I’d spent Christmas curled up in a ball in my bed — unmoving, unwilling to see anyone. Not even the servants who showed up at my door bearing trays of food and bottles of water. My birthday and New Year’s Eve passed in much the same fashion.
“That’s not fair,” Owen says, a thread of hurt in his voice. “I wasn’t suggesting a kingdom-wide round of JELL-O shots in your name, Ems. I’m just saying, the people would’ve rallied around you. Supported you. Comforted you.” He sighs. “If ever there was a time Germania has needed a fresh start… it’s now, when we’re at our absolute lowest.”
“Why are you so sure they’d turn out in spades to support me? Last I checked, a large chunk of this country wasn’t too happy with the Lancaster line.”
“There hasn’t been a single protest since the day that truck exploded in the square. But I’m sure you know that already. You must get security briefings.”
I glance away, blowing out a sharp breath. I can’t refute him. It’s true — the anti-monarchist protests, led predominantly by a group called the Black Bandanas, have been noticeably absent in the wake of the terror attacks three months ago. The ringleaders, whose names I refuse to utter out of respect for the victims, were killed by their own hands — incinerated into mist by the homemade explosives that filled the back of their truck.
Cowards, all four of them.
I wish they’d lived, if only so they could be made to suffer like the families of those whose lives they stole. If only so I could punish them properly for the atrocities they committed in the name of nationalism.
But I cannot say that in a press conference. My sense of stolen vengeance would be of no comfort to anyone — not me, not my subjects, not those directly affected by the attacks.
Others can cry and scream and rage at the heavens. They can shake their fists at the sky and demand answers from a god they no longer believe in as tears of rage and grief streak down their reddened faces. They are free to be broken in a way I will never be.
Not the queen.
Never the queen.
I alone must stand tall, a beacon of enduring strength and unshakeable Germanian pride. I alone must carry this burden on my shoulders, never faltering, never hesitating. And the weight of that — the unfathomable, excruciating weight of it — presses my heels so hard against the ground, some days it is difficult to keep my knees from buckling beneath me.
Time and space offer some degree of solace. The slightest easing of immeasurable grief, like a corset loosened after an endless night — allowing your ribs to slide back into their rightful slots, letting life return to tight-cinched lungs. Those first few breaths feel so free, it’s jarring. As though your lungs have forgotten how to perform their only function after so long in confinement.
Ah, there it is, you think, pulling in an aching gasp.Air.
Inhale, exhale.
I remember this, now.
Riggs, who I promoted to Commander as soon as my reign began, has made it his personal mission to root out every radical even remotely connected to the attacks, vowing that nothing like this will ever happen on Germanian soil again. His predecessor, a foul man named Ramsey Bane, was far less disciplined. Not to mentionhighlydispleased to find himself dismissed from a post he’d held for decades without so much as a fruit basket for his service.
Owen’s eyes trap mine again. “If you don’t want to talk about this, I understand. But…”
“I want to know. Everything.” I steady my shoulders. “The only thing worse than knowing why these attacks happened is not knowing.”
He nods gravely. “Last time we spoke, I told you I was trying to infiltrate the Black Bandanas. It took some time, but eventually I succeeded in joining their group.”
“I know. I actually saw you with them one day, when protestors surrounded my motorcade.”
“You were inside that limo?” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Ems. That must’ve been scary.”
“I’m a big girl. I can handle it.”
“Right.” He clears his throat with a touch of awkwardness. “These past few years, there’s been a resurgence of the anti-monarchist movement. There are several different protest groups, all with objectives of instituting a true democracy in Germania. The Black Bandanas are by far the most active. Not to mention the most aggressive.”
Reaching up to my face, I wipe at an imaginary gob of spit on my cheek — a parting gift from a Black Bandana during one of my public appearances several months ago. I’ll never forget the look in that man’s eyes as my guards dragged him out of sight.