The cold of the early morning seeps through my blankets. The fire must have died out. I doze-dream about a manservant coming in to stoke it back up. Then the light shining on my eyes wakes me up again, and I remember that I'm cold.

One hand sneaks out of the blanket, and I telekinese the curtain shut with a muttered, "Et væ." I tug the blanket closer around me and stare at the ceiling. There's a spell I could use to light the fire from this distance, but it's hard and I'm not very good at it. I don't think I want to start my day with that sort of energy drain.

It feels like every day is competing to be worse than the one before. Aselle drops that if I want a coronation, I'll have to do it myself, and the next day, the castle goes crazy.

First, every Lady and their sister seemed to want to talk to me about my role in the castle and my war efforts. I tried to fend off as many as possible so I could get real work done. Ironic, considering they're accusing me of not working enough if I supposedly have time to organize my own coronation. I also had to meet with the investigators I'd set on the case of my mother's poisoning. Sela's wishes or not, I ordered no one be left out of the search. Even so, my servants have no more information than when I sent them out. A single trusted cook oversees all the Queen's meal preparations, and the maids they interviewed knew nothing. They even went so far as to question Illesiarr as to what sorts of poison might be ailing her—he had no answers for them. They concluded, hands clasped tightly in front of them, that it seems improbable that any poison is involved at all. Frustrated, I dismissed them. Yet another waste of time, and no closer to saving anyone.

Then, around noon, the Kadranians hit the wall.

We flooded it with soldiers and wizards, as Sela directed. The Kadranians didn't fall back until about six last night. We still don't know the extent of the disaster.

Then Leavi's 'lost message' about Lady Irrianet's almost-treason... I scoff and pull the blankets tighter. No wonder Irrianet needed to go talk to Lady Osennia, the daughter of a High Lady. She must have been making sure the girl was under her thumb before writing to Temmarelle. I wonder if, when I ran into her in the library the other night, she was already plotting with Irrianet. Jacqueline knows her mother, Riletta, will go along with almost anything. I used to feel bad for Osennia, being so obviously smarter than her. At my seventeenth, Mother hosted a ball, and I didn't even dislike my dances with the girl. Now disgust twists my gut. I suppose kindness really is just another tool of these castle vipers, something to be utilized and forgotten as soon as it's no longer helpful.

Never on my trips with Agraund was I so mentally exhausted. I just want to pull the blanket over my head and go back to sleep, forget that there's war, forget that there's scheming Ladies, forget that there's no responsible way for me to stay here right now.

Angry and tired before the day's even begun, I shove out of bed. Maybe Leavi was right. Maybe I shouldn't have come. I do my best, and it gets us nowhere. Maybe I should've stayed where I was and let Solus and everyone else just do whatever they wanted.

But as I tug off yesterday's clothes and jerk on today's, I know I don't mean it. I'm here because I was raised to be. I can't abandon my people. Even if I'm useless, I'm useless but trying.

I jam the circlet onto my head and push into the other room. Trying to call together a list of things I need to do today but failing, I catch myself biting my lip. It seems that habit is trying to take the place of me knocking off my circlet. I run my tongue over the sore starting to develop. I feel like I should try to stop the biting, too, but at least it's not something that makes me look like an idiot.

I pass the tea table on my way to the hall door, and the book on it catches my eye. I stop and pick it up. Until Leavi pulled this off the shelf, I had forgotten about it. It didn't seem nearly so bleak a thing when Jeanna read it to me, but now that I'm older, it sounds like a death sentence. The realm stands condemned unless the stars bring them.

The deep intrigue of childhood stories swirls distantly in my mind, and desperate for a distraction, I let myself succumb to its enchanting flow. Seeing that book let me see the mesmerizing rivulet, hearing the words slipped my feet into its waters, and standing here now, staring at its well-loved but long-worn cover—I fall into the depths of vague memory and halfway-tangible thoughts.

What did she mean that my name was a sign? When I was a child, I assumed she made this book, for why else would it have my nickname on it?

Star Prince, she would call me, come listen to the story. The story? Singular. This book isn't a collection of tales; it is a tale, a series of poems together pointing to a singular truth.

"Truth?" I laugh, jolting my mind out of the water. It's just a book of poems. I flip its cover open.

The Wyrd of the Silver Tree. That must be talking about the Great Tree, made of the metal of the Fallen Star. Honestly, the first two stanzas sound like the old stories, except for calling Lady Jacqueline both the 'First Mother' and the 'Foolish One.' Giving her two names is odd, especially one so irreverent.

No, one of those titles must be referring to someone else, but which one and to whom? It's a Morineause book, so of course 'First Mother' is talking about the Lady.

Then again, Jeanna wasn't Morineause by birth. She was technically Draón, from a town so close to the border that many of their traditions and manners of life were similar to our own. That doesn't mean that everything was the same, though, so maybe she wasn't as respectful of the Lady as I thought. Or perhaps...

Perhaps it's saying that Lady Jacqueline wasn't the one to give magic to humans. I chew on the thought. It doesn't make much sense; it goes against years and years of history and tradition. She's the mother of magic. Who else could have given it to the people?

Tired of trying to dissect that poem, I skip the third stanza and move on to the next page. The realm stands condemned... If the previous poem was a history, this one sounds like...

"A prophecy."

I scoff at myself and close the book. Prophecies don't exist; the only thing with magic strong enough to perceive the future is the direct royal bloodline of the great first Lady. It would be wonderfully convenient if someone else could tell me all the future, rather than me seeing it in vague, confusing images, but that isn't how things work.

I move to the bookshelf. I need to stop wasting time.

As I push it onto the shelf, my fingers fumble, and the book falls. I pick it up on the page it fell open to, and as I go to close the book, a phrase catches my eye.

We see the future too.

Thoroughly chilled, I stare at the book. It's like tendrils of ice creep up my legs before diving into my soul to leak cold fear into me. I stand, frozen to the spot, and read the entire poem.

Trust your eyes, Star Prince

Trust no one else's ears

What others see are lies, Star Prince

Built on lusts and fears

Trust what is yet wild, Star Prince

Trust yourself to guide

She is yet a child, Star Prince

But faithful to your side

Trust your deep power, Star Prince

The magic at your hands

Keys call for their hour, Star Prince

To save all seven lands

Trust in what we say, Star Prince

We see the future too

Trust in that there's eight, Star Prince

But to lead them falls on you.

Simultaneously, the words ring in my mind's ears like truth and reverberate discordantly. "Deep power?" Any of my strength at casting is through endurance. "Seven lands?" There are only five—Morineaux, Bedeveir, Retra, Kadran, and the collection of lordships that makes up Draó. Even if I count Leavi's strange High Valleys, that's only six. And no one lives in The Deadlands except for the occasional lunatic that thinks they can make it in the frozen, rocky wasteland. I scoff. There's nothing there to save.

At the same time, the writers call for me to trust them. Perhaps I am foolish in presuming to know things, assuming that the book is wrong.

Holding it, I realize something else, too. Jeanna certainly could not have written this; the pages are too old, the cover too worn, for it to be any less than half a century old, maybe older. Jeanna didn't make this for me after nicknaming me Star Prince. She called me that after reading this. Come listen to the story, Star Prince, she'd say. But there was another sentence after that, one I forgot until just now. This is going to be very important one day.

What did Jeanna know that I am missing? What is this all about?

I bring the book back to the couch and reread the first three poems. There. There it is. It says it in the first one.

"The Chosen we need," I read aloud, voice soft as if afraid of shattering something precious. "The Chosen to seed the beginning of the Shadesnare's end." The book wants the Shadesnare defeated, and it thinks I'm going to do it.

"What?" I ask the air. "That's ridiculous." The Shadesnare is dead.

I stand, snapping the book shut. "These are children's poems," I hiss. "You already have enough to deal with without worrying about old stories."

I shove the book onto the shelf and leave, snatching my rapier belt and cloak. The door slams shut behind me, but the chill follows me out.

* * *

I step into the dining room for breakfast. Sela sits in her normal chair, and Reyan in his beside her. I slide into my seat across from them. The fireplaces at either end of the hall are ablaze, and I'm grateful for the warmth.

I don't bother with pleasantries and pick up my fork, saying, "We lost twelve lowest-tier telekinetics, of the fifty-three we had after other battles, and one of the four telekinetics in the top two tiers." I watch Sela. "D'orien, one of only two elementalists in the entire Corps, is badly injured. Illesiarr isn't sure yet if he'll survive, much less make it back onto the battlefield anytime soon." Bitterness on my tongue, I turn to Ren. "What are you looking at?" The numbers for the soldiers are undoubtedly staggering. When I went to Illesiarr to ask after D'orien, I almost couldn't walk in for how many injured there were.

"Two-hundred thirty-one dead or missing. Forty-six injured. Only twelve of those are expected to make a full recovery within the next month. That's all from this battle alone. Total casualties are closer to three-hundred fifty dead or missing and sixty-nine that are expected to never fully recover."

Sela's lips are tight as she eats.

"Oh," he adds, "and there was one of your Lieutenants that got injured."

Sela looks up, brows drawn together.

"I believe she received a papercut in a strategy room." His glare is sharper than swords, and I'm glad I'm not the one on the end of it.

"Ren," she murmurs, eyes flicking down. "It's not my—"

"It is your fault." His fist bangs the table. "You—"

She looks up, eyes desperate. "It could have been a valid strategy, it—"

"Sela!" he barks. She stops, gaping at him. His voice drops but slowly rises until he's yelling again at the end of it. "You would have known it wasn't if you had consulted the people who know these things!"

She stands up, chair squealing against the stone. "I am not an imbecile! I know about war!"

He stands too, towering over her. "Then you know," he growls, "that if we take three more battles like that, the Kadranians will get to just waltz in."

I take another bite of my breakfast.

"You have no right to speak to your—"

"You're my sister, and the Princesse, uncrowned. I will respect you as much as you earn it."

She stands there, silent and trembling, a dark look in her eye that I've never seen before.

"Call off the Auditorium meetings."

She glares at him. "No."

"Then only use them to update your precious Ladies. They don't deserve a say in this."

"Mother said—"

"Mother isn't here right now. And adaptability is just as much a virtue as following advice."

She sits down, anger still etching the lines of her face. She looks to me. "Why did you not tell me you agreed to plan your own coronation?"

"That's not an answer, Sela."

I swallow what's in my mouth as she continues to watch me.

"Sela," Reyan demands.

"Well?" she prompts me.

"Ahm, I didn't—"

Reyan's booming footsteps interrupt as he turns and heads for the door.

Sela twists in her seat. "Reyan." He keeps walking. "Stop!"

I stand, holding up a hand. "Actually, there's something I need to talk with you both about."

Reyan pauses, then looks at me.

I start to sit again, eyes still locked on his. His lips twist, but he comes back and takes his place as well.

All three of us seated again, I say, "A piece of information anonymously found its way into my hands."

Reyan's eyes narrow.

"It appears as though Lady Irrianet is conspiring with Lady Temmarelle and young Lady Osennia to undermine our power."

Reyan snorts. "That's news?"

Sela looks at him shocked.

"What? I'm pretty sure everyone is 'conspiring to undermine our power,' as Aster so cleverly puts it."

I shake my head. "I assumed that too, but I was hoping to warn you that there is specific communication between these people. We need to be especially wary of these three. I'm sure they're in communication with at least one of your Lieutenants, too."

"I respect ideas, not titles, so no worries. It's her you'll have to warn." Sela flushes, but he stands. "Is that it?"

It bothers me that he takes the matter so flippantly. If they give good advice, and frequently, then it's easy to stop evaluating new ideas as carefully.

"Yes, that's it."

"I wish you a good day, then," he says to me. He doesn't bother with a farewell to Sela before leaving the room, and the door swings shut behind him.