The flames illume the dark of the courtyard. Tonight, even the stars' glory pales next to the fire's mournful splendor. Through the flames peaks the serene face of the Queen.

Mourning and anger rage dully within me, held back by a strong dose of the numbing cold. I can't say she was especially caring to her family, and I don't believe that she held any particular fondness for me. She wasn't cruel, though, just removed. As much as I wished differently, she was more stranger than family.

But as little as it seemed she cared for me, she was still my mother. It's not like she was just a cold, calculating courtier, either. She was a cold, calculating courtier that loved her country and made her country love her. She was a queen's queen. Strong but gentle, just but kind. Impersonal to her family, but the country's mother.

I always admired her. And as little as she acted it, she was still my mother.

My soul hangs heavy in my chest with sorrow and exhaustion. The longer I stand here, the more the fire seems to melt away the icy distance that first encased me in her room. My throat constricts.

I may not know if she loved me, but how could I help but love her?

I don't bother blinking back the stray tears that wind their way down my face. Likely, no one will see, and those that do shouldn't think any less of me. Even as grieved as I am, as desperately as I tried to save her, it's not as if I'm sobbing.

I'm just appropriately mourning my mother and Queen. Nothing more and nothing less, as propriety would not accept the former and my heart would not allow the latter.

Normally, all but the closest to the deceased would start to leave after half an hour, but tonight is different. It is not only the time for us to mourn the death of our Queen but also to celebrate Morineaux's newest one. We cannot afford to put more time between them, not with the siege and our efforts needed other places than ceremony and tradition. Even the Ladies see that.

Nobody restocks the fire as it starts to die early in the morning. There's no need. Enough fuel was supplied from the start to properly send her off, and now, in the quiet, dark stretch of morning that both sun and stars forsake, most of her body is ash. The firelight glints off her crown.

Somehow, it still seems wrong that Sela will soon be wearing it. The crown of Queens and Queens past. The crown that all bore the burden of. The crown forged through fire and fire again, strong enough both to outlast the trials of the reign and the heat of the pyre. From coronation to cremation, the crown stands, soon, somehow, belonging to Sela.

In the corner of my eye, maids usher people out of the courtyard and to the Auditorium. They must have everything set up for Sela's coronation. Which means it's almost dawn.

Almost time to declare, once and for all, our mother no longer Queen of Morineaux.

Everything is changing. People are dying, Morineaux is besieged, and the world shifts under our feet. Sela, Reyan, and I are all technically adults, but with the oldest among us at twenty-one, I can't help but feel we're still children. We shouldn't be responsible for a country. Not one with easy decisions to be made, much less one in the middle of war.

The flames of the pyre are dying like my optimism.

If my parents and uncle couldn't fix this and survive, who are we to think we can?

Anger and a sense of futility well up within me. Our parents are dead. Agraund is dead. The only people here to help us would probably just as soon skewer us—or have us skewered, in the case of the Ladies—in the name of doing what's best for the country, for surely they could rule better. Indeed, I feel like the only thing between us and replacement is the thin excuse of our bloodline.

The courtyard is nearly empty. I feel isolated, like a wavering candle in oppressive darkness where the only other candles that understand are either too far away to join their light to mine or have flickered out.

A hand settles on my shoulder, and I startle. My eyes finally tear away from the dimming pyre, trembling sunspots clouding my vision. They clear slightly to reveal Illesiarr's face.

"It's time for you to leave, my boy."

My breath puffs out of my lips at the words so simple yet so inexplicably meaningful. This is the last goodbye. The final moment before the last semblance of normalcy I have is swept away into an urn and locked in the catacombs. The final moment where I can claim any sort of irresponsibility or childishness or foolishness to be acceptable, if I ever could.

"I know," I say quietly.

A chill runs through my frame despite my proximity to the fire. If today is the death of my queen, then so too shall it be the death of any thoughts of self. I turn from the body and toward the doors. Sela and Reyan walk but ten feet ahead.

No more personal endeavors for the sake of sentimentality—only care for the welfare of Morineaux and her people. No more distractions.

Yes, tonight Sela shall be crowned. But I also will be changed, if not in name, then in fate and action.

My mind is distant as we file onto the dais. The glittering nature of the Auditorium is muted by the multitude still in maroon from the funeral. The sounds even seem quietly distorted, as if the hush of the goodbye to Queen Díane has followed us, a ghost of despair present at the supposed birth of new joy.

My mother wasn't married until after she was Queen, so I have never attended a Queen's coronation. However, I know the ceremony and have seen Ladies' titles be bestowed as they pass down the line, and Sela's coronation as Crown Princesse was not so different from this...

My thoughts cannot seem to focus more than to order my body to respond correctly to the proceedings. Here, a candle glints off the wall, or there, a woman shifts a sleeping child in her arms. These things consume me during the process, like distant reminders that the world shall not be foundationally altered—light still illuminates, children still cling to their caretakers, a 'Jacqueline follows a Jacqueline,' and life continues.

Life continues, and so shall—

My mouth opens to sing with the crowd.

"Glory to our Lady Queen

Long may you reign

Your power, beauty, majesty

We live to proclaim

"Glory to our Lady Queen

Who is and will forever be

Our living image of Jacqueline

Our never-ending history

"Glory to our Lady Queen

The envy of all Avadel

On your wisdom, we all lean

To your splendor, we all pale

"Glory to our Lady Queen

For naught can ever stop your reign

Trials come and leave again

But you will always yet remain."

The crown descends upon Sela's head.